


Raiders of the Lost City

by CaekDaemon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Casterly Rock, Gen, Gogossos, Lannisport, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-09-11 04:30:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 59,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8953711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaekDaemon/pseuds/CaekDaemon
Summary: Years before Aegon the Conqueror went forth with his dragons and his sister wives to forge the Iron Throne, there were the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, one of the most powerful families in all of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Like all the great houses of the then divided realm, they had for themselves a great sword of Valyrian steel, Brightroar, their most prized possession.And yet the sword was lost, King Tommen II having taken the blade with him on his voyage to the ruins of Old Valyria, never to be seen again. Countless numbers of brave Lannister men have since gone forth to find it, countless thousands of gold coins spent in the hope of recovering their lost glory, stopping not even after the time when the lion knelt before the dragon. But when Gerion Lannister, the uncle of a queen, a knight and a dwarf went eastwards to find the blade, there was little hope of him being seen again......until rumors of a shipwreck with crimson sails reach Westeros, and Lord Tywin finds himself sending his youngest son, the dwarf Tyrion Lannister, to the edges of the world to bring back what was always theirs to the ruins of the Tenth Free City, Gogossos, a place of forgotten lore and forgotten sorceries...





	1. From Casterly Rock...

****  
**Raiders of the Lost City  
Casterly Rock, 297 AC...**  


Tyrion Lannister walked through the long winding hallways of the castle of his birth, his path lit by dozens of oil lanterns that burned more clearly than wooden torches, essential to keep the massive mountain fortress clear of smoke, and a great display of Lannister wealth in a way other than just simple gold. The halls and their great vaulted ceilings were high and wide, the stone filed down so smoothly over the centuries as to give almost no hint as to that he were inside the heart of a mountain and not a normal castle, but they were long too, and even longer for a dwarf such as himself. But he knew the quickest paths through the Rock, the same ones that the army of servants used when carrying out their chores and keeping the vast fortress clear of dust and dirt, and Tyrion knew for a fact that he could find his way through the labyrinthine tunnels of their home even faster than his brother Jaime could, even after a few years at the Red Keep away from the Rock, and it was for that reason that Sandor Clegane, the Hound, was following his lead, only rarely having been inside the heart of Casterly Rock and never once in its upper levels where Lord Tywin kept his solar.  
  
And that was exactly why he was there - his father had sent a raven to King's Landing, summoning him and the Hound back to the Westerlands, for whatever reason neither of them knew...only that it was important enough for him to be fully ready to overrule Cersei's want for the towering Clegane to stay at her son's side, and upon their arrival at the gates Tyrion had been told to find his father and nothing more.  
  
"How much further, dwarf?" the scarred Clegane grunted as they came upon an intersection where the hall branched left and right, looking both ways for any hint as to which way was correct. "We are going in circles."  
  
"Not much further," Tyrion replied as he walked towards the right without stopping for a moment. "And no, we are not. The tunnels do loop on themselves, however, if you go left enough times."  
  
"Who's damned idea was that?" Sandor asked as he quickly followed, never once letting the dwarf out of his sight.  
  
"The miners," Tyrion answered. "They usually slept and ate inside the mountain whenever they could, so that they would not need to descend the mountain only to climb back up it in the morning. The tunnels looped on themselves to stop them from suffocating from the smoke of their cooking fires."  
  
The towering Clegane grumbled wordlessly, and after a few dozen feet they came upon another intersection that he took a left on, and after another few minutes of walking, they came upon the elevator, a massive structure of wood and rope connected to a few dozen oxen arranged in a circle who lived outside on one of the mountain's flatter plateaus. Tyrion stepped ontop of it, and after a few moments of unease, Sandor testing it with his foot, the Clegane followed before the operator, a man with a chest as broad as that of a blacksmith, recognized Tyrion instantly and bowed before moving over to the levers, tugging and pushing with low grunts before, at last, the gears began to move and the platform began to rise.  
  
"Why in hells is the solar so far from the ground?" Sandor growled as the platform jerked hard during its long ascent, the force shaking the tall and armored Clegane more than it did the small Tyrion.  
  
"Because there is one on the ground," Tyrion answered. "My father prefers the one at the top of the mountain."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because my mother liked to look out at the sunrise," Tyrion replied quietly.  
  
The rest of the ascent was in silence after that. He had never had a chance to know his mother, but from everything he heard of her she could have only have been a magnificent woman, and the only one in the entire world who could say to have ruled Tywin Lannister's heart. Sometimes, he wondered how his life might have been different had she survived his birth - would she have loved him how his father had not? Would she have protected him from Cersei's mocking and teasing? Would she have helped him find a place in the world of his own, or helped him do the things that he had wanted to do?  
  
No matter how much he might have wanted to know, Joanna was gone, and he would never get the chance to know if she loved him or not.  
  
A few more minutes passed, and at last the elevator came to a stop at the highest point of Casterly Rock, at the mountain's summit, where only the last dozen feet of a mountain three times the height of the Wall were between him and the open skies, and where, on the other side of the great and guarded door in front of him, the ancient Casterlys had laid the first stones of the massive fortress beneath his feet, a ringfort that had long since been replaced by something so much grander.   
  
The twenty guards were the finest men-at-arms the Westerlands had to offer, gathered from across the length and breadth of the Lannister domain and armed and equipped grander than most knights. They stood to attention at the sight of the dwarf, their halberds clanging off the ground in a respectful salutation that made Tyrion feel as tall and as respected as a king, and with smooth motions the two directly besides the door turned on their heels and each reached for one of the great door's two handles...and pulled simultaneously, flooding the entrance chamber with a golden light so brilliantly bright in comparison to the dim caverns as to make Tyrion wince as he stepped forward into his father's solar. Opening his eyes as he made the transition from dark mountain to bright building, he saw a chamber as large as the Red Keep's great hall, its ceiling just as high. Along the walls were long and intricate tapestries that told the tale of Lannister history and towering statues of Lannister heroes, each and every one twenty feet in height and so detailed as to look as though they might spring to life and step down from their pedestals: King Lancel I, who broke the might of the Reach for a generation and conquered swathes of its Lands, King Gerold, whose mastery of ships showed that the Ironborn's mastery of the waves was allowed only at the lion's indulgence, King Lancel IV, who cleaved off the heads of father and son with a single strike of Brightroar, King Cerion I, whose armies shattered three kings in one battle, and many more, great and noble men all, every one with a golden lion upon his breast and a king's crown upon his brow. Falling upon their cheeks and bodies was the radiant light of the afternoon sun, its brilliance shining from the six open windows of the ceiling, the shutters so high above and so wide that only a pole with a hook upon its end could hope to reach and close them, illuminating their faces in death just as it had in life before reaching the countless stone tiles of the floor, each and every last one hewn from the same gold-bearing rock as the mountain's heart, each polished to a shining perfection, making the specks and veins of the gold trapped within glitter like the prettiest of gemstones, looking as though he was walking upon a floor of a million golden dragons.  
  
But it was at the far side of the room that the most dominating feature of all was shown: an enormous window of stained glass, a golden lion standing tall upon a field of crimson and looking towards the door, the light that passed through his eyes falling upon the very place where the doors stood, itself flanked by another two that led out to the great and private gardens that were supposed to be his mother's favorite place to relax. In front of it, at last, he found his father, sat upon a wooden throne behind a wierwood desk as big as a dining table, a servant dressed as richly as a nobleman filling his cup as the Lord of Casterly Rock read through a large, thickly bound book, another smaller one besides and a letter with a broken seal atop, three tall chairs opposite Tywin's own.  
  
Without looking up from the pages, the Lord of the Westerlands spoke. "You are late."  
  
"I am sorry, father," Tyrion said quietly, only raising his voice enough that he might be heard on the other side of the long room. "Rain washed out the road near the Golden -"  
  
"Sit," his father said to the both as he cut his dwarf son off, raising an open palm towards the chairs as he stayed focused upon the pages in front of him.  
  
Tyrion took the first step towards the table, Sandor giving his sword belt and helm to the first servant to cross his path before following in complete and utter silence, breathing so quietly as to sound as though he wasn't breathing at all, out of fear or out of respect, or a mix of both, Tyrion could not be sure. But it was obvious at a glance what chair was meant for him, as his father had clearly prepared an uncommon courtesy for Tyrion; a small wooden step, placed before the chair so that it might be easier for the dwarf to climb into his seat, and a plump cushion, so that he might sit at an equal height to any man. Tyrion was grateful for it, but all the more intrigued by the possibilities of why his father had summoned him to the Rock from King's Landing, and why he would prepare such a rare kindness. Tyrion ascended the small steps, sitting comfortably as the towering Clegane fell into his own seat, the dwarf seeing the unease in the Hound's hands and eyes - unease, when he was half a foot taller than the man on the other side of the table and twice as strong and could kill him before any guard could come closer, so great and fearsome was Tywin's reputation. Servants brought over cups for the two, silver goblets lined with gold, and filled them with an Arbor red as dark as blood, the Dornish never often selling wine to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock and the Lannisters of Casterly Rock little interested in buying it from them.  
  
As soon as they were done, Tywin looked towards the servant. "Leave us."  
  
There was no questioning of his certainty, nor an acknowledgement, only the sound of footsteps as they turned towards the door and left, every other servant following...and as the doors closed, the great chamber empty of all but the three of them, even Tyrion began to feel uneasy as his father's hard and stern eyes fell on him for a moment before the Lord of Casterly Rock began to speak at last.  
  
"It would seem the third man I requested has not yet arrived, but no matter," his father started. "They have already sent a message as to their assent. I shall require yours and your secrecy, as not a word of this shall leave this chamber whether you carry out your task or not."  
  
"Sandor Clegane," Tywin said first, addressing the half burnt Hound. "Give an honest answer, or give none at all. You wish to see your brother Gregor dead for what he did to you and your family, is that correct?"  
  
"I do," Sandor said with a weakness that Tyrion had never seen in him, the dog timid before the lion.  
  
"If you agree, then you shall have a chance to fell him with your own blade, at a time and place of your choosing," Tywin said, his voice hard like stone. "Do you?"  
  
Tyrion nearly blinked after that.  
  
_Seven hells...what must my father want us to do, if he is ready to give up his hound and butcher so easily?_  
  
"Of course, my lord," Sandor answered with a formality that Tyrion had never seen him do, and with the barest hints of a smile upon his burnt face.  
  
"Tyrion," Tywin said as he turned his attentions towards him at last. "Upon your sixteenth nameday, you asked to be able to take a tour around all of the Free Cities, as your uncles and my brothers once had. I will finance this voyage for you. Do you accept?"  
  
Tyrion's eyes widened in response to his father's proposition. He had always hoped to have a chance to see the Free Cities for himself, as his uncles once had, to see the Titan of Braavos and the Black Walls of Volantis with his own eyes...it had always been a dream of his, but he had never had a chance...and here now as his father, giving him that long awaited chance...  
  
His mind was made instantly.  
  
"Yes," he said...and a question crept into his mind. "But...why me and not Jaime, for whatever this is?"  
  
"Your brother Jaime is bound by the oaths of the Kingsguard and has no choice but to stay at the Red Keep, no matter how many debts I mention to King Robert," his father said as he reached over to the letter. "You will need to go in his stead. I believe I do not need to mention what will happen if either of you mention this to anyone, so I shall explain now as to why I summoned you both here."  
  
Tyrion reached for his wine, and took the tiniest sip before setting it down once again, all his attentions and wits focused on his father, and not a single jape in his throat.  
  
"I am sure you both may remember my youngest brother, Gerion," his father started. "A reckless man, but not one without a certain cunning talent for solving puzzles and mysteries."  
  
"He went missing years ago, on his voyage to find Brightroar," Tyrion said with understanding, leaning forward in his seat.  
  
"Indeed he did," Tywin nodded. "I had sent ships to find him, in case he had gambled away his ship and money, but they only managed to follow his trail as far as Volantis, where half his crew had abandoned him after he revealed his plans to follow King Tommen's path into the Smoking Sea. A foolhardy choice, as no one has ever returned from the ruins of Valyria, but Gerion was nothing if not daring, and sailed with slaves to replace his missing crew."  
  
"And then he disappeared, without a trace" Tywin said...  
  
...before adding with a sip of his own wine. "Or so it seemed."  
  
"...Uncle Gerion is alive?"  
  
"As you may know, it is part of the duty of the Lord of Casterly Rock to keep informants in all the major markets of the world, so that any attempt to devalue our gold through the use of lead or cutting can be controlled before it affects confidence in our coin," Tywin explained. "Even more so, our spies on the trade routes allow us to give Lannisport an advantage over its rivals, as they will know what goods are coming to the city before they arrive and can plan accordingly."  
  
"One of these merchant ships, travelling towards the Summer Islands, was blown off course by a storm. They emerged near Sothoryos, far off course but able to correct their position by using the stars of the _Ice Dragon_ as a reference. As they sailed westwards, they passed the ruined city of Gogossos, the Tenth Free City. They steered clear of it, as most men would, but as they passed the island they saw a wreck upon the shore," Tywin said at last, pushing the letter forward across the table's smooth surface. "A wreck of a large ship with crimson sails and a gold lion head upon the prow, an exact match as to the description of the one that he had taken east."  
  
"If he made his way that far south, then he must have been returning from Valyria and been caught in a similar storm," Tyrion said in understanding as Sandor looked over, listening carefully.  
  
"Precisely my thinking," Tywin agreed as he took the closed book and quickly flipped through the pages before stopping and pushing it across the table. It was a book about all the Valyrian steel blades of the Seven Kingdoms, and on the left was an extremely detailed image of the Royce weapon, Lamentation, its history written besides...and on the right was Brightroar, in all its majestic beauty, a true greatsword and not an inhumanly large one like the Stark weapon, its most iconic trait, its golden lion head and its ruby eyes, painstakingly drawn by hand. "If sailing into the Smoking Sea was not enough for him to think his search was a folly, then returning westwards could not have been because of anything other than him finding the blade."  
  
"I have never heard of Gogossos," Sandor said at last, neither Tyrion nor Tywin surprised by his lack of knowledge on the matter. "What happened there?"  
  
"It was a Valyrian prison, for their worst killers and madmen," Tyrion explained quickly. "They survived the Doom, only to all die from a plague not long after. It made their skin fall off, but not all of them died...some say they had sorcery, bloo-"  
  
Then there was a clamour as the door opened, and all three looked towards the door to see a man step through; he was small of stature, but not a dwarf, and with a plain and common face, neither handsome nor hideous, and he had brown hair and a brown beard, sprinkled with grey, wearing a thick mantle of simple green wool and brown boiled leather beneath. A pouch hanged around his neck, and for a moment Tyrion didn't recognize him, not till he remembered the man whose company he usually kept at King's Landing, the adviser of an adviser.  
  
"Forgive me for my late arrival, my lord," said the onion knight, the guards closing the door behind him.  
  
"Ser Davos Seaworth?" Tyrion said as he looked to his father in surprise. "I must admit I expected a Velaryon or a Redwyne."  
  
"Ser Davos managed to sneak past the entirety of the Redwyne warfleet with a full cargo during the rebellion," Tywin answered as the Seaworth captain sat upon the third seat. "He is one of the best captains in the Seven Kingdoms, and one of the few accustomed with sailing ships rather than galleys."  
  
"Aye," Ser Davos added, wearing a small smile. "If you're going so far south as Gogossos, you'll need a sailer and not a galley. A galley would never make the voyage, not with so many mouths to feed and such a shallow draft. You'll be smashed in the first storm you see."  
  
"And what is your payment?" Tyrion asked with interest.  
  
"Twenty five thousand gold dragons," Tywin said flatly. "A princely payment, but one worthy for a man of his talents."  
  
"It is enough gold for my sons, my grandsons and my great-grandsons to never need to worry about their own, and enough to build a proper keep for them," Davos explained. "All I want and nothing more. Your lord father offered it, and though my loyalties are for Lord Stannis, I could never turn down such a payment for one last voyage."  
  
Tyrion nodded understandingly - he had never spoken with Davos, not much anyway, but if his goal was to simply get gold so that his line might live well for generations, then it was respectable and noble enough for Tyrion to be able to trust him for the time being. _So long as someone doesn't try to offer a higher price...but a Lannister always pays his debts.  
_  
"Though I must say, sailing down to Gogossos in a straight line has never been done by a Westerosi before," the onion knight said. "Only the Summer Islanders and their swan ships have ever been able to do it."  
  
"All the more reason to make the voyage, then," Tyrion said as he took another sip of wine. "The maesters will want to write of it."  
  
"And all the more reason to be cautious, too," Ser Davos answered. "They say the Gogossosi used blood magic as often as we do cups."  
  
"Magic?" Sandor asked with a mix of surprise, confusion and concern.  
  
"Blood magic," Tywin said. "Whatever magic they had, it could not save them from death. Gogossos is ruins, nothing more, and I have little interest in it. Brightroar is what is wanted, it and nothing else."  
  
"You, Sandor, are to go along and command Tyrion's guard on the way there, should any pirates or anyone else think to board the vessel," Tywin said, his words not a command and yet carrying all the subtle force of one...then, for perhaps the first ever time, it softened, to a tone that Tyrion had only ever heard him use with Jaime, the tone of a father talking to a son. "As for you, Tyrion, I give you the overall command. Should anything unexpected happen during the voyage, you have my permission to do whatever it takes to complete your task and bring Brightroar here again. Once you collect the blade, do not let it out of your sight."  
  
"I wont."  
  
"Good," his father acknowledged, pushing the third and final book across the table. "This book is from the Citadel, and contains everything the maesters know of Gogossos. It may not be much, but perhaps it could be of some use, if you are marooned there as Gerion surely was."  
  
"Is the ship ready to sail?" Ser Davos asked.  
  
"Built specifically for this task and this task alone," Tywin nodded. "It has the supplies you need, and a disciplined and experienced crew. They do not know why you are going to Gogossos, only that they are paid well enough to not care. That is enough."  
  
"Then we best set sail as quickly as we can," Davos said quickly, rising to his feet. "It has been a long summer that could end at any moment, and we cannot hope to make such a voyage come the autumn, and by winter the blade could be gone."  
  
"Then so we shall," Tyrion agreed, stepping onto the wooden steps and reaching for the small book, taking it in hand and climbing down from his seat and onto the stone tiles below, Sandor rising from his own not long after. "May we?"  
  
"You may," his lord father answered.  
  
With that, the three began to head to the door, Sandor collecting his sword belt and helm on his way towards it, but as the door opened and as the other two men passed through, walking further and quicker with their tall legs, Tyrion stopped as he heard his father speak.  
  
"And Tyrion?"  
  
"Yes, father?" the dwarf said as he turned to face him.  
  
"If you lose the sword when we are so close to having it again," the lion of Lannister said lowly, his voice cold and hard like steel. "You will not be welcome here till you recover it. Is that clear?"  
  
Tyrion nodded in understanding and silence, and then he turned for the door and followed the other out towards the elevator, the guards closing the door behind him and ringing a loud bell that ushered in the start of their downwards descent, the wooden platform going quicker down than it did up.  
  
"It seems my dear father is as fond of me as usual," Tyrion sighed as elevator passed away from the guards with a clamour of rolling pulleys. "Why else would he send me and not Kevan or Stafford?"  
  
"Because he trusts you more than them to get the sword?" Ser Davos asked with mild interest. "Why wouldn't a father choose his son for it?"  
  
"Because he loses the least should I fall overboard in a storm and drown," Tyrion answered honestly. "Uncle Kevan is his right hand and Stafford is too old to make the voyage. He wouldn't have sent Jaime even if he wasn't in the Kingsguard."  
  
"Aye, you might be a dwarf and he might not think much of you for it," Ser Davos reasoned. "But mayhaps this will be your chance to prove yourself to him."  
  
"Or for him to have me thrown overboard."  
  
"If he wanted you dead, dwarf, he could have asked me to throw you through the window," Sandor said with a low grunt. "He doesn't want you dead, he wants you to get the damned sword and bring it back."  
  
"And now words about family from the man who _wants_ to become a kinslayer," Tyrion replied deftly, the Hound grumbling in response. Changing the topic, he turned himself and his attentions to the Seaworth captain, and asked, "Are you certain you will be able to sail us to Gogossos?"  
  
"I spent most of my life as a smuggler, evading the royal fleet," Davos explained. "Now, I captain one of its galleys for Lord Stannis, the _Black Betha_. It won't be an easy voyage; only the Summer Islanders are used to making such a long journey in a straight line, but once the course is set we should be able to make it to Gogossos, so long as we don't stray from our path."  
  
"And what course are we going to take?" Tyrion asked. "You don't mean to sail straight to Gogossos from here, do you?"  
  
"The ship's built for carrying a lot of supplies and doesn't need as large a crew, so we can go further without putting in to port," the Seaworth captain explained quickly. "But we'll need to sail from here to the Arbor, then eastwards past Dorne to Lys. There we can take on whatever we need to finish the voyage, and either sail on to Volantis and then go south past Valyria, or straight onto Gogossos."  
  
"Which would be better?"  
  
"That depends on whether you would rather have storms or demons?"  
  
"Is there a difference?"  
  
The Onion Knight laughed at that. "Not much of one."  
  
The elevator clanked as they came down to the floor where they had first embarked, and Tyrion stepped off with a renewed energy, now that the unease of speaking with his father was over and done.  
  
"Is it really just gold that has you coming on this voyage?" he asked with a genuine interest, curious about the man who would be captaining the ship on its journey.  
  
"Not entirely," Davos answered honestly. "Lord Stannis says it helps young men if their fathers go awhile for a while, lets them learn how to be responsible and how to live on their own. Not many men want Seaworths as their wards or squires, but this will do the same, aye, and let me pay for my sons to have armor and training of their own and a strong keep to pass down. I might be no true knight, but my grandsons might be."  
  
"You want to build a dynasty, then?"  
  
"No," Davos laughed. "I just want to make certain my sons don't have to do the wrongs that I did."  
  
The idea of what Davos had said then was almost entirely alien to Tyrion, the words almost feeling as though they did not make sense when put together, even if they did alone, but after a moment's hesitation and confusion he was instantly back to his norm, remembering how his own father had acted around Tyrion ever since he was a child, how even the moment's softness of his time in his father's solar just minutes before was just another means to an end - his father had once said that there was a tool for every task, and a task for every tool, though Tyrion had not expected it to apply to family as well as to quills and swords. Thankfully, the elevator came to a clattering halt on the floor where the operator stayed, sweat upon his brow from the arduous task of managing the heavy mechanisms, but for a time and a dozen floors of walking he remained silent, till at last the passage into Casterly Rock's incited him to speak again.  
  
"You speak highly of Lord Stannis," Tyrion said, taking the opportunity that had presented itself. "Didn't he take your fingers?"  
  
"He did," Davos answered. "It was justice."  
  
"An odd way to give gratitude to a man for bringing you food, when Tyrells are feasting outside the walls."  
  
"Aye, and for that he gave me a knighthood and lands of my own," Davos countered with a surprising swiftness. "For my smuggling, he took the first joint of every finger on one left hand. A fair trade, and one I would make again, as it bought my children a future without them ever needing to risk the gallows for smuggling themselves, or ending up in a bowl of brown in King's Landing."  
  
"Most other men would have simply given you the knighthood without taking the fingers," Tyrion responded as quickly as Davos had. "Why does lopping off your fingers make Stannis better?"  
  
"Because it was _justice_ ," Davos said again. "He doesn't let a good act wipe out the bad. He remembers both, and uses both when making his judgement. That's why I only lost my fingers and not my head."  
  
"And what good would an onion knight be without a head?"  
  
"Not much," Davos smiled. "He'd be dead."  
  
"You know, Ser Davos," Tyrion smiled. "I think I am going to like you."  
  
There was a low rumbling, the sound of Sandor Clegane laughing.  
  
"Have I missed something funny?" Tyrion asked. "I like a good jape."  
  
"A smuggler as a knight," Sandor said. "Can you even swing a sword?"  
  
"Can you sail a ship?" Davos answered.  
  
"...oh, I do think I like you already," Tyrion laughed.  
  
"A good thing, too," the knight answered, attentions turning back to the dwarf from the Hound. "Nothing good ever comes of a crew who hates each other when at sea. They fall apart the moment something goes wrong."  
  
"What might go wrong on this voyage, anyway?" Tyrion asked as they finally walked through the doors of the great hall and out onto the great courtyard, a small town in itself separated from Lannisport by high walls, where the men and women of the outermost part of the Lannister household were hard at work carrying out their daily duties, fetching water for horses and mending their iron shoes. "Storms? Running out of food and water? Dysentery?"  
  
"All three and much worse," Davos answered with a grim understanding. "Seven help us if we lose our bearing on the last part of the voyage to Gogossos. It's easy enough to find which way is north and which is south, but east and west are harder, and there are no landmarks to help, aye, and no good maps of the Valyrian shore anymore either. It would be easier to follow the coast, since then at least we know that there is land nearby and that sailing northwards should lead us back to Volantis to resupply, but only the Seven know what's on those shores and if there is a reef we might strike."  
  
"So, we have a choice between being ran aground and killed by monsters, or being blown off course and ending up lost and eating one another," Tyrion sighed. "Why can't we sail to the Summer Islands instead? The land of tits and wine instead of the isle of blood magic and death?"  
  
"Because you'd never want to leave if we did," Davos answered. "Besides, if your uncle Gerion had made it there alive, he would've been able to book passage to Lannisport on one of their swanships, and none of us would be getting the rewards we've been promised."  
  
"I suppose I will have to visit the isles at another time, then," Tyrion answered, wondering for a moment if his father's offer of paying for his tour of the Free Cities would count the Summer Islands too. "It isn't like my father will destroy the ship once we are done with it."  
  
"He won't," Davos said with certainty.  
  
Then the men passed through the least fortified gate in the outer walls of Casterly Rock, the mountain looming behind and casting a long shadow onto the fields and rolling hills beyond, but Tyrion's eyes were forward, on the greatest street in all of Lannisport in the midst of market day, the merchant stalls stretching down the length of the road and selling everything that could be found beneath sun or soil, mobs of townsmen and traders filling the space between, haggling and bartering over prices as the disciplined men of the city watch kept the peace and intervened whenever an argument grew too fierce. But even they stayed clear of the three of them, the crowds melting away every time they came close, if only because of how the Clegane was a head taller than the crowds, everyone seeing his black hound's head helm and moving out of their way. Tyrion was careful not to say anything as they walked, and neither did Davos or Sandor, all three knowing the danger that could come from speaking of their voyage in such an open, populated place, but Tyrion knew to _listen_ , too, and heard voices speaking - of prices, of how the wines grown on the slopes of the mountains were good to drink but also surprisingly cheap due to having no real reputation to inflate the price, how Tywin's dwarf son had been recalled from the capital for whatever reason, how Euron Greyjoy had been forced into exile for bedding his brother's bride, how the Lannisters had built a new ship and crewed it with the best. He heard it all, even if much of it was simple gossip with no real value, and made certain to stay quiet and keep that way, lest someone with dangerous friends find out about the reasons for their voyage, someone who would know the value of ransoming back Brightroar, or someone with an interest in making sure they never reclaimed the blade even though they were so close to having it again.  
  
Instead, he simply looked forward and whistled a jaunty tune, _Fifty-Four Tuns_ , a drinking song that was one of King Robert's favorites, and did nothing more as he walked, not even looking back at those who looked at him, or those who shied out of his way. He could hear some speaking about him after he passed, if barely over the sound of clanging coins and trade, but everything he heard had the sound that they did not know _why_ he was there, only that he _was_ , and that was enough secrecy for Tyrion to be sure that they would not have any problems from Lannisport, not when they would be long gone by the time anyone else knew that they had set sail.  
_  
If my lord father has spies of his own in every city, then no doubt others have spies here, too._  
  
When they came to the harbor, the great group of drydocks and warehouses and wooden cranes that made up the port from which the city drew its name, he looked around again, eyes searching for the ship that would take them on their southwards journey - he saw drunken sailors stumbling out of taverns and entering brothels, captains meeting with merchants and tax collectors on the quay, onloading and offloading their cargoes, he saw merchant cogs bobbing in the waters and galleys rowing in and out...and in the end, it was Ser Davos who saw her, and subtly pointed towards her with a tap of Tyrion's shoulder and a flick of his wrist, the dwarf unable to see it through the crowd of tall and burly sailors.  
  
"There she is," the Onion Knight said proudly but quietly as the three started through the crowds, Tyrion letting Davos lead the way. "The _King Gerold._ She's a carrack, the same kind of ship as those that sail eastwards to Ibben and Asshai."  
  
"A pity we aren't heading eastwards," Tyrion answered as he sidestepped a sickly and half-naked sailor, barely managing to evade his spew as he rushed past towards the waters, gagging on bad ale. One tried to pick a fight with Sandor Clegane, only to get pushed off the dock and into the water with a single shove, landing with a shout and a splash. "I hope none of these are our crew."  
  
Then he looked forward...and at last, he saw the _King Gerold_ , in all her majesty. At a glance she looked like a larger cog, and yet she was so much more, a ship that carried no oars and was instead propelled across the seas entirely by the wind, caught in the sails affixed to her two great and towering masts, where the enormous sheets of scarlet red and gold cloth were wrapped and ready. Her deck was wide, large enough that he could see a dozen men in armor gambling on its strong and seasoned timbers, yet the ship below was even broader, with room for a few months of food and water, along with replacement parts, perhaps even a sail. She had a small, triangular forecastle where a large scorpion had been placed, the ship's golden figurehead - a proud and roaring lion, just as the one of his uncle Gerion's ship had been - rising from the prow beneath the ship's bowsprit sail. At the rear was another castle, where the tiller connected to the rudder post and where another scorpion was mounted, beneath which were the captain's quarters. In the entire port there was none like her, and he knew from the first glance that she would be as strong as she was swift, and that if there was any vessel in the world that could take him and the others to Gogossos, it was the one anchored in port before him.  
  
"She's beautiful," Tyrion said as they walked towards the wharf, finding what could have only been the entire crew alongside, dicing and drinking at the ship's side, the guards watching over them. "But why is it a she when it has a man's name?"  
  
"Because you'll spend months inside her, just as a babe inside their mother," Ser Davos answered.  
  
"Hold there!" came a shout from the crowd of crewmembers, and from them emerged a large, towering man buried in furs he wore over ringmail, a Northman with grey eyes and brown hair and a massive axe in his hands. "This is Lord Tywin's ship."  
  
"And this is Lord Tywin's son," Sandor growled with a tip of his head towards Tyrion. "And who the bugger are you?"  
  
"Artos, of the clan Norrey, axeman," the large man answered, looking down towards Tyrion with confusion. "You are a dwarf...?"  
  
"I am," Tyrion answered. "Have you never seen one before?"  
  
"Forgive his intrusion, Lord Tyrion, he most likely has never seen a dwarf before," came another voice, one Tyrion looked over to and saw a kindly old man with something akin to a maester's chain, but not quite the same - that of an imposter, or a replacement. "Clanswomen often leave deformed babes out in the snows to die, rather than waste food by feeding them."  
  
"Sandor, remind me to never visit the Northern clans," Tyrion said before turning his attentions on the maester. "And who are you? My father has found a maester for this voyage?"  
  
"I am Qyburn, my lord," the maester offered with a warm smile and a slight bow. "The Citadel took my chain, but they could not take my knowledge of the body, and so when your father sent out need for a healer for a long voyage, I was quickly chosen to join."  
  
"And I and this man are to fight, if we should be boarded," the bulky clansmen said as another man came forward, this one having messy brown hair and all the looks of a sellsword about him...but a dangerous sellsword, with a wolfish face and deft movements.  
  
"And you?"  
  
"Bronn," came the answer. "Your father wanted swords, so he had us fight the best men he had."  
  
"And a clansman and a sellsword won?"  
  
"Aye, and this woman here," Bronn said with a shrug, gesturing to a woman sat upon a crate in the rear, a pretty thing with black hair cut short like that of a man and blue eyes. "A beauty and deadly, she is. Could geld a man with a single throw of an axe."  
  
"And I'll geld you if you don't stop talking," she spoke with a harsh tone as she pulled an axe up from the timbers of the wharf before looking at Tyrion. "I am Esgred, of Pyke."  
  
"...and an Ironborn woman," Tyrion said as he looked to Ser Davos with mild surprise. "It seems my lord father has found a motley band indeed."  
  
"And me," said a freckled, red haired youth of some twenty years with the accent of a marcher, a longbow strung around his back and a quiver on his hip, arrows fletched with red and gold feathers to match the red and gold clothes he wore, the same as any Westerman archer. "I'm Anguy, from the Marches, the best bow in the Seven Kingdoms."  
  
"Is there anyone else who is going to introduce themselves before we even board the ship?" Sandor asked with annoyance, Ser Davos simply shaking his head as he walked up the gangplank.  
  
"Only the rest of the guard," Tyrion said as he saw some eight Lannister men-at-arms, wearing crimson plate, before turning towards the ramp and following the onion knight aboard. "Take their names for me, Sandor. I have planning to do."  
  
The Hound grumbled loudly enough that Tyrion could hear the sound even on the deck of the _King Gerold_ as boots fell behind him, the mix of Westerosi boarding the ship one at a time, but Tyrion was more interested in what Ser Davos had to plan, and followed him into the captain quarters, a lavishly decorated room with two feather beds - one for himself and one for the onion knight, he assumed - on either side of the room, blocked from viewing the other by a wooden wall that acted as supports for a long row of shelves full of maps, quills, books and all the tools of the navigator's trade. Below, a chest, a brief flip of the lid showing the tough key and the neatly stacked gold coins inside, no doubt his reserves of coin for buying new supplies on the journey, and he took the key and slid it into his pocket in an instant, locking the chest tight as Ser Davos brushed past his shoulder and took a map of the Sunset Sea, unrolling it on the large dining table in the middle.  
  
"It shouldn't take us long to reach the Arbor, a few weeks at the most," Davos said with a tap of his finger on the Redwyne isle and Tyrion turned round and waddled over to the table. "A little longer from there to Lys, mayhaps a week at the most depending on the winds. But as soon as we get there, we'll need to decide - straight on to Gogossos, or onto Volantis and then southwards along Valyria's coast."  
  
"I think it best if we decide when we get there," Tyrion said. "If the voyage has been easy and there have been no issues, then I see no reason not to sail straight on. Otherwise, Volantis would give us a chance to find our bearing and think. They welcomed my uncle and King Tommen, I see no reason why they wouldn't do so again."  
  
Davos nodded...and then added. "I will say this: sailing from Lys to Gogossos in one go is doable, but it will take luck. The journey is the same length as from the Arbor to Lys, but we won't have land to help correct our course should something go wrong, or a place to anchor to make repairs."  
  
"Would you really wish to anchor near the Smoking Sea?" Tyrion asked, sitting in a seat and placing the book atop.  
  
"Honestly?" Davos asked, touching the pouch of bones at his neck. "No. I would rather risk my luck on the open ocean than risk travelling by it. But you are the one in charge, not me."  
  
"Then we shall see how lucky we are," Tyrion said, flipping over to the first page and glancing at the pages. "Please, tell me once we have left the harbor...and send in that former maester when it is time for dinner. I would like to hear anything he has to say about our destination."  
  
"As you will," Davos said with an obedient nod.  
  
Then the former smuggler headed for the door, stepping out onto the deck and issued his commands with a loud, practiced voice...and after a few moments, a few minutes at the most, the ship was on its way away from Lannisport, towards the Arbor, and Tyrion spent every moment he had reading.  
  


****  
**A few hours later...**  


Qyburn gently dipped the tip of the soft cloth into the small bowl of fresh, clean water, glancing over at the tiny oil lantern that provided the heat to boil the wine for cleansing his needles before their use, before finally turning his attentions over to the first patient of the voyage, who had been injured barely six hours into their voyage with a split brow severe enough as to need stitches. Bronn. He walked over to the sellsword with the damp cloth in hand, examining the cut and the growing bruise around it closely, and then he began to wipe blood away, pressing hard on the cut to slow it down once he had. "How did you get this so quickly, anyway? Sandor Clegane? Artos? A fall, perhaps?"  
  
"Esgred," the sellsword answered, his voice completely without even a hint of pain. "I thought she was only pretending, earlier."  
  
"You thought she was pretending to not be interested in you?" Qyburn asked, concealing his amusement lest he find himself thrown off the ship so far from the shore. "A rather...forceful rejection of hers. What did you do?"  
  
"I squeezed her arse below deck," Bronn answered without any regret.  
  
_That explains everything perfectly._  
  
"Well, you are fortunate," the former maester said, examining the wound again with the blood cleared away before putting the pressure on again. "She doesn't appear to have inflicted any real damage, but you will need stitches to properly seal it."  
  
"Must I?" the sellsword asked. "I've had worse."  
  
"You can walk out now, if you so desire, but not without the risk of the wound going bad and festering," Qyburn said. "It'll spread across your face, you know, till the one side looks like Clegane's. If you don't die, it would be rather intimidating...though I doubt women will appreciate it."  
  
Then the sellsword laughed. "Fine."  
  
"Fortunately, the bleeding appears to have slowed enough for me to begin," Qyburn said as he took the cloth away. "Try not to move."  
  
The sellsword didn't answer, which was an answer in itself, and so Qyburn walked over to the table that his primary work surface, the place he kept all his tools in the little room that was his to work in, and put the cloth inside the bowl for cleaning before putting on the thick, woolen mittens of a maester's medicine, flexing his fingers twice before taking out the hot, steaming needle and putting clean thread through its eye. Then he walked over, and even the seasoned killer in front of him seemed to recede further into his seat at the sight of the sharp needle coming close towards his eye, only to wince in pain with a pained grunt and a squeeze of the chair's arms as Qyburn began, half closing one eye as he focused all his attentions upon the work, speaking with what little he had to take the mercenary's mind from the pain. "Was it worth it?"  
  
"It was," Bronn answered, closing the eye on the side and leaning his head to one side so that Qyburn could see better. "She was as soft as a pillow."  
  
"Best not to keep doing it, lest she break something I cannot mend," Qyburn japed, reaching over to his table and taking a small blade to sever the thread and allow him to finish his work, tying a knot at beginning and end. "There, finished."  
  
Then he turned to the table and set down his needle and thread, removing his thick mittens and picking up a wooden framed hand mirror to show the sellsword his reflection.  
  
"Hells," Bronn laughed, pulling stray hairs away as he looked into the mir. "I've never had a maester sew my cuts before. You can barely even see the mark!"  
  
"Most men never do," Qyburn said as he washed his hands in clean water, washing away what little blood had made it through his cloth at the start of it all. "They should be fully healed by the time we reach the Arbor, so I will remove them then. If it itches too much to stop you scratching at it, then tell me and I shall give you vinegar to use to stop it...and if it starts to get hot or red, _tell me_ , as that means the wound is fouling and I do doubt you want to die from a cut eyebrow."  
  
"Thanks," the sellsword said with what could only be genuine gratitude as he rose from his seat and headed out the door and onto the deck.  
  
Now alone to clean up his tools, Qyburn started by pouring a small cup of apple vinegar from the great cask that he had arranged to be brought onboard, the versatile substance serving as the backbone of every maester's healing work, and dropped the used needle into it before dousing the flame of his oil lantern and putting the bloodied cloth into his wash bucket for clea- then came the bam, bam, bam of a fist knocking on the door, and he turned to see that not only had Bronn left the door open on his departure, but that the captain of the ship, Ser Davos Seaworth, was stood in the doorway.  
  
"I saw Bronn on his way past," the captain said with an approving look in his eye. "You do good work, maester."  
  
"Thank you," Qyburn answered. "Is there something I can do for you, captain?"  
  
"Lord Tyrion wishes you to eat with us this evening," Davos offered warmly. "He's interested in whatever you might know about Gogossos."  
  
"I must admit to having only the experience of my tutors at the Citadel about Gogossos, but I know other things that could be of use," the former maester answered, drying his hands. "Tell him I will be there shortly."  
  
"Even a little more than what we already know will help," Davos said before nodding in understanding. "I will tell him."  
  
Qyburn nodded slowly, returning to his cleaning as the captain walked off, making sure that everything was where it had been before he had tended to Bronn's slight injury, and he thought about the sweet reward for carrying out his part of the voyage as he did. The archmaesters of the Citadel had stripped him of his chain for his studies and experiments, cast him out of the great academy of the sciences and out onto the streets, all because he dared to further man's understanding of life and death and medicine in the best way possible - by studying the bodies of living men rather than those of the dead. They had portrayed him as a butcher, as a monstrous who abducted men and women from the streets and slashed them to pieces to see what made their bodies work, sewing them back together again as twisted misshapen abominations, but the truth was nowhere near as monstrous as his rivals for the silver mask and rod would wish them to be, but a thousand times more innocent; many of his first subjects were novices and acolytes who could not properly afford their tutorage at the Citadel, and whom willing participated in his studies in exchange for his own teachings and aid in forging their first link, and each time they did he never one touched a blade, but curiously studied other matters, such as what the lack of different foods might do to a man's strength, how people from different lands varied in height and girth, and a thousand other things. It was only on the poor, the sick and the homeless that he practiced his more invasive studies, and only then with their permissions, often given in exchange for treating their existing ailments that they could not afford to have treated by any other maester, a thing that had taught him the arrangement and proper function of living flesh and even that some small organs could be removed without harm to the man or woman they used to be inside, if any infection could be contained and dealt with.  
  
But that was not to say he had not learnt other things in his studies of the body and in his long readings of old Valyrian medical texts and scrolls...things that the Conclave would not, could not, approve of, a thing that terrified men of science in the way that only it could, a puzzle that could not be explained by their understanding of the natural world around them...or any understanding at all. It was sorcery, true magic, as only the Freeholders of old had once wielded, and when all the other archmaesters condemned him and stripped from him their links, it was only Archmaester Marwyn, whose ring and rod and mask were forged of Valyrian steel and whose field of study was the very magics that all the others condemned, who stood at his side and defended him when all others would not, only he who would escort him out of the Citadel when the judgement was given and passed. It was that which got him stripped of chain and title, the latest casualty of the eternal war within the Citadel between those who considered sorcery and magic a science like any other, a force to be understood and studied, and those who considered it an unnatural blight amongst the world, a tool to be returned to its chest and buried forever. He was only grateful that those voices at the Citadel thought to challenge him publicly and have him banished from the order, rather than slip a poison into his cup and get rid of him that way, as so many other studiers of the old art and those who asked the wrong manner of question were dealt with.  
  
But if the gods were kind, his reward would be enough to reverse the damage they had done, for it was nothing more than a simple letter to the Grand Maester from the Lord of Casterly Rock, asking for his reinstatement and the return of his chain. Nothing more. With the Grand Maester's protection and support, he would be free to continue his research...though in a safer location than the Citadel, perhaps.  
  
Done with his cleaning and preparations, he walked out of his medical room and onto the upper deck, the first one with a roof and without the risk of rain and water. All around were most of the ship's crew, who had come below decks for the evening, dicing and eating or sleeping in the hammocks they set up between the ship's timbers, whilst next to his own room was the one for the ship's kitchen...or what passed for one, when little fire could be used for cooking due to the risk of the entire ship catching flame should a mistake be made. But for the most part, the ship was comfortable; the thick timbers kept the warmth inside even on the terribly cold nights of the Sunset Sea, and the crew was not all that large for the size of the ship either, giving a fair amount of room for all hands aboard, and the sails had the added bonus of not only smoothing the ship's movement, but getting rid of the horrid stench of a hundred sweating bodies at the oars below decks, and it was that for which he was especially grateful. Making his way through the relaxing crew and men-at-arms, past the soundly sleeping clansman, who held his axe in arms like lover, he made his way to the staircase that led onto the weather deck, where the stars of night twinkled brightly in the sky above, and where he could see the outline of the Ironborn woman Esgred at the tiller, steering the ship with a steady and practiced hand as she use the stars of the _Ice Dragon_ 's tail above as a reference, making sure that the wind did not change their southward course.  
  
She had been a surprise for the voyage so far, and he felt as though there were other surprises in store, but he paid her no real attention and instead walked across the open deck to the captain's quarters, knocking twice before entering. It was a lavishly decorated room, as large as a lord's solar, and in the midst was the masterfully crafted dining table, perfectly square, with Sandor Clegane on the left, Ser Davos on the right and Tyrion Lannister on the other side, even though it was big enough to fit all three on the same side, a book by the Lannister dwarf's side keeping his attentions in a way that the sparsely picked meal on his plate could not. He closed the door behind him, trapping the warmth inside, and Ser Davos greeted him with a smile and a nod, Tyrion with a gesture to the empty seat opposite him, and the Clegane did nothing at all but drink some wine.  
  
"Please, sit," Tyrion said after taking a sip from his glass. "Has Ser Davos told you why I wish to speak with you?"  
  
"He has," Qyburn answered as he did as he was commanded, sitting in his seat. "You wish to know more about our destination?"  
  
"Indeed I do," the dwarf replied, his mismatched eyes turning towards the maester at last. "My lord father gave me a book not long before we left, supposedly containing everything the Citadel knows about the city. I was hoping you might tell me more over dinner."  
  
"Well, my lord, there is little known about the city," Qyburn said, raising his dining knife and testing the meal before him. "The city was once called Gorgai, when it was still a colony of the Ghiscari Empire, who used it as a trade post for the more distant Summer Islands and Naathi, who were too far from their home city to be easily reached."  
  
"I understand the Valyrians massacred every last man, woman and child inside the port not long after the destruction of Ghiscar," Tyrion said with a grim voice.  
  
"They did," Qyburn answered. "They thought it likely that the remote settlement might revolt not long after the dragonlords left and overthrow the Valyrian garrison they installed there, so they slaughtered the lot and brought in their own settlers rather than risk starting a dangerous precedent of revolts within the Freehold. They say the blood ran so thick through the streets that it looked as though a river had been born."  
  
There was a small of unease in the air, then, a small fear of disconcern, the silence of which gave Qyburn the chance to more properly examine what had been put on his plate. It was not a bad meal, as far as sailor's fare went; a large helping of pickled herring, sliced thick and tasting more of onion and salt than fish flesh, steaming hot, three hardtack crackers like those that had been the backbone of the sailors diet for centuries, a dozen pickled onions the size of his thumbnail, a few slices of a thick and strong reddish cheese and, most amazingly of all, a palm sized bread roll, freshly baked and still warm from the oven. It was difficult merely heating up a meal on a wooden warship, yet alone cooking one, but actually managing to bake a bread roll was miraculous, and a testament to the cook's experiences in working whilst at sea, and he was genuinely grateful for it.  
  
Qyburn sipped his wine, then, and reignited the conversation with his words. "The Valyrians themselves were at first interested in the port for the same reasons that the Ghiscari were - it provided a convenient stopping off point for raiders and merchants going onto the Summer Islands, who were forever a land of interest for the Valyrians. They played their princes against one another, you see, to make sure no real power formed that could properly protect itself against their slave raids or threatening."  
  
"After that, they turned it into a prison colony," he continued. "The jungles of Sothoryos to the south are thick and uncharted, so any man who wanted to return to civilization would have to go northwards by sea, an impossible task without proper planning and plentiful supplies. The Valyrians were cruel masters even to their loyal slaves, who they made toil in the mines for gold and gem, but those sent to the prison isle - madmen, killers, dissenters and malcontents - found a far crueler fate in store."  
  
"Guards with plenty of free time on their hands seem to get creative when they are bored," Tyrion murmured. "I am sure the Boltons and Wyls would learn much from them, and nothing good."  
  
"Oh, but that was but the least of it," Qyburn said as he placed cheese upon cracker. "I don't suppose that tome of yours mentions blood magic?"  
  
"Only a little," Tyrion answered truthfully. "Is there something the book is not saying?"  
  
"The true question is: is there something that was known but not _written_?" Qyburn replied, taking a bite from the dry hardtack before washing it down with his wine, all three of the men in front of him waiting for his response. "The maesters of the Citadel have long been interested in...passing over the influence of spell and sorcery in their writings, that I can assure you."  
  
Tyrion looked at him strangely, then. "What do you mean? Why would the maesters of the Citadel ignore the power of magic?"  
  
"Because, Lord Tyrion, people fear the dark," Qyburn answered deftly. "Men fear what they do not know, what they do not understand. A knight can look at a blacksmith and see how his sword was forged, just as Ser Davos could watch a shipwright start the work of building a vessel, but magic by its very nature cannot be understood...and for men of science and reason like the maesters of the Citadel, who believe that there is not a wonder or a mystery in the universe that cannot be explained by reason, it is an anathema."  
  
"That is why they do not write much of magic in their history tomes," Qyburn finished. "For how can you explain the unexplainable? How things happen when they otherwise should not? Instead, they place their stock in other matters, other ways things came to be, even if they are are a grave mistake at worse or a sweet lie at best."  
  
There was a silence, and Qyburn saw the uncomfortable sea captain take a long drink of wine.  
  
"A pleasant wine, isn't it?" Qyburn smiled, changing topic as smoothly as a warrior might change their stance. "Where is it from? Old Oak?"  
  
"My lord father inherited a few wineries from his own father," Tyrion explained with a smile, raising his glass as he examined the red liquid within. "My grandfather had a taste for wines, and found it strange that the Westerlands had no famous wines of its own. So he made one."  
  
"It's not as good as Arbor red, but it's cheaper," Sandor Clegane said, speaking for the first time since Qyburn entered, his scarred and burnt face twisted even more so in the oil light.  
  
"We have nearly as many casks of it as we do herring," Davos added at last. "Lord Tywin could have given us more variety on the foods, but what we have will last long enough that it will all be eaten before any of it has a chance to rot. The Arbor and Lys will give us a chance to take on fresh supplies."  
  
"If I might make a suggestion, my studies once revealed that a variety of foods is needed for men to be able to maintain their strength," Qyburn explained. "Fresh fruit, for instance. Perhaps we could take some on at the Arbor?"  
  
"You studied foods, maester?" Tyrion inquired with interest.  
  
"Not foods, but what their abundance and absence does to the body," Qyburn answered. "It is a strange thing. The strongest knight can dominate his foes on the field, but be destroyed slowly over a matter of weeks simply by lacking the right foods needed to sustain their strength. Scurvy, for example, cannot be fought with boiled wine, blades or bread mould, but a handful of blackcurrants a day for three days and it will be weakening, continue for a week and it will be gone entirely."  
  
"Aye," came the voice of Ser Davos. "You can see it during a siege. The fresh food goes first, and the men start to weaken even though they've still got bread and salted meat to eat."  
  
"What was your speciality, maester, if you studied this?" Tyrion asked. "Medicine?"  
  
"Precisely so," Qyburn answered. "My knowledge of the body is second only to that of the archmaester Ebrose himself, if not greater. I know how to treat a wound gone bad with poultices of bread mould and vinegar and boiled wine, how to remove cataracts with suction and how to reroot knocked out teeth, and a thousand other things."  
  
"Then why are you here, and not at the Citadel?" Tyrion asked with what felt like a hint of confusion...or, perhaps, because he already knew the answer and wanted Qyburn to say it himself. "If you are as skilled as you say you are, then surely you shouldn't be on a ship such as this?"  
  
"I am exactly as skilled as I say I am, Lord Tyrion," Qyburn answered at last. "But as you may have already noticed, my chain is not like that of a normal maester, because I am no longer a maester. I was stripped of my chain for giving the field of magic legitimacy by considering it a field of possible study in the first place."  
  
"The internal politicking of the Citadel is usually deadly, so I am rather happy to have only lost that rather than my life," he said, raising his own glass to take a sip. "But I would wish to have my chain restored to me again, and it is that which your lord father offers me for bringing my knowledge on this voyage. Vindication, for my hours of study and observation."  
  
"You studied magic?" Davos said with surprise.  
  
"Enough to have forged a Valyrian steel link for my original chain, yes," Qyburn replied...before returning the conversation to its original topic. "Now, Lord Tyrion, you were curious about Gogossos, yes?"  
  
"I was," Tyrion answered grimly. "But I think the more I learn, the less I wish to know."  
  
"Then know this, then; the things that the blood sorcerers and fleshsmiths of the Gogossosi did, even before the Doom, were... _unnatural._ "  
  
There was silence all around the table, then.  
  
At last, it was the Clegane who broke it. "...did you just say "fleshsmiths"?"  
  
Qyburn nodded solemnly.  
  
Even the ocean seemed to go quiet then, not a single word more being said for the rest of the meal.  
  


****  
**A few weeks later...**  


Tyrion couldn't help but smile widely as he stood at the _King Gerold_ 's prow beneath the golden light of the late morning, watching as the great ship rolled over the waves, her great red sails at their full for the first time since their departure from Lannisport, the tall ship finally having a chance to sail in all her majesty. It had taken the first few days for him to properly find his sealegs on the deck when the ship was travelling at speed, but with Ser Davos and the Ironborn woman serving as an example it hadn't been too hard to learn how to find his balance, and now that they were properly underway, closer to their first destination than to the port from whence they had started out, he was finally starting to see the beauty in the ship's hull, in the smooth curves of her timbers and the sleekness of her hull. She was prettier than any galley or merchant cog he had ever seen before, her tall masts and their scarlet sails cutting a sharp profile, but she felt _strong_ too, so strong that he felt like he could sail her to the end of the world and back again, and for the crew - many of whom had served on war galleys or the like before - it was obvious at a glance how much they preferred it. They were smiling, taking the chance to enjoy the voyage itself without needing to focus on emptying out water that entered through the oar-holes or rowing, dicing and talking and laughing on the deck between carrying out the onion knight's commands, and even the former smuggler was as cheery as the crew beneath him as he got the chance to see what a true sail ship could do when the wind was on her side.  
  
Tyrion watched the waves crashing into the strong prow, feeling the waters rolling beneath his feet as the ship climbed over them, splashing down again with a spray of ocean mist against his cheeks as warm and gentle as a lover's kiss, and he smiled as he felt the wetness. There truly was no more apt a figure to place upon her bow, for he knew that the ship must have surely had the spirit of a lion within its planks and nails and masts, a proud and golden beast yearning to run free once more, every wave conquered a rock leapt over and every destination a new hill to stand atop of as king. Energized by the cool and salty mist, he turned and heard the sound of laughter on the deck as Anguy soaked his own linen shirt in dark wine as the ship clawed its way over another wave, the marcher bowman so drenched he had no choice but to strip off his shirt and throw it aside for cleaning later...only for the ship to roll again and send it tumbling straight into the sea, to the amusement of every man on the deck and the archer's stunned amazement.  
  
"I don't suppose anyone would wager a new shirt?" the archer said at last as he picked up the handful of die again and started shaking them in his hand. "No?"  
  
"We're not that far from the Arbor, now," Esgred answered, sat atop the aft castle with a far-eye, watching out for any signs of reefs or storms on the horizon, the Ironborn woman seeming to get prettier with every day that passed, though perhaps because she was the only woman he had seen since they had left port. "You can buy another there tomorrow morning."  
  
"Already?" Tyrion said with surprise as he stepped down onto the deck, never taking his hand from the railing in case a powerful wave sent him tumbling overboard. "I thought we would not be there for a few more days?"  
  
"We don't need to stop like a galley, so we can sail on through the night," she answered, looking down at him with hard blue eyes. "We passed the Shield Islands a few days ago, and we'll pass by Oldtown today. By tomorrow morning, we should be in sight of the Arbor."  
  
"Ser Davos," he said next as he ascended the aftcastle for himself, turning his attention to the captain stood besides the tiller, a crewmember keeping their course straight as Davos watched something in the water behind. "How fast are we going?"  
  
"Six knots," the onion knight replied with a proud smile as he took count of the rope trailing from the ship's rear, pulling it in one knot at a time and wrapping it around the railing. "A fast galley can barely manage three."  
  
"We're twice as fast with half the crew and with weeks worth of supplies in the hold," Tyrion smiled. "All we need now is a good weapon, and men won't have a need for galleys anymore. Is she right about the Arbor?"  
  
"We might even make it there by tonight, if the winds stay on our side," Davos answered. "If the weather stays fine for the rest of the journey, we'll be done and home again before we would even notice autumn's arrived."  
  
"No," Esgred said, peeking to the horizon as she did. "These winds come down from the North and end near Dorne, so once we make it past the Arbor and turn eastwards we'll lose them. We'll be lucky to make four knots, then."  
  
"You've sailed these waters before?" Davos asked curiously.  
  
"Many times," she answered. "Anyone from the Iron Islands who wants to go eastwards for trade or reaving has to pass through the strait, and every longship captain knows that the winds weaken on the south of Dorne. They will still be enough to push us forward, but not as quickly as we go today."  
  
"Then we best make the most of the advantage we have whilst we have it," Tyrion said, thinking as he did. "Once we arrive at the Arbor, we will be able to find whatever it is we need whilst the men have some time on shore before we continue onwards to Lys."  
  
"If she's right, then we'll need more supplies, unless we stop at Sunspear on the way east," Davos reasoned.  
  
"I doubt the Martells will be very welcoming of us and Clegane, seeing as his brother caved in Elia's head," Tyrion sighed. "I would rather not learn about Dornish hospitality. We will have to make do without them."  
  
"Then you'll need to find a food at the Arbor that won't rot in the time it takes for us to reach Lys, and enough of it that we won't run out on the way."  
  
"I'll come up with something," Tyrion said, glancing towards the horizon. "Mayhaps a few more dozen barrels of pickled herring."  
  
"Where your lord father found so much of the stuff before I'll never know," Davos murmured quietly. "I've never seen so much of it in one place before."  
  
"No doubt there is someone fond of the stuff who found himself outbid by Lannister gold," Tyrion answered. "Mayhaps the ghost of the Mad King Aerys, or a particularly wealthy cat."  
  
"Aye, well, if I were you I would find something that isn't fish for the men," Davos said at last. "They'll be bored of the stuff now, and won't want to eat much more of it. Variety will do, something to break up the routine a little."  
  
"Esgred, your people spend most of their lives at sea," Tyrion said, facing the Ironborn woman, who turned round to meet him, closing the telescoping far-eye and moving a stray tuft of black hair from her vision. "What would you suggest?"  
  
"Other than developing a taste for pickled fish?" She asked before starting. "A good cheese would do, since the hard outside helps keep it safe from mould and it can last forever inside a linen, but even if it starts to rot you can cut that section off. Crackers, too, but they have to be kept dry...ham, smoked and salted ham, and good sausages too, both could last long enough to make the voyage from the Arbor to Lys," then, seeming as an an afterthought, she added, "You will want to make sure to clean the hold out afterwards, though, and get rid of every last crumb."  
  
"How come?"  
  
"Rats and mice will run to the meat if it starts to rot," she answered. "They don't like the smell of pickled herring, it seems, since I have not seen any on the ship and we haven't a ratter to be hunting them down, but they will come aboard if you give them a reason to. "  
  
Tyrion looked back at her, thinking - there had been something not quite right about her ever since she came aboard, but he hadn't been able to place his finger on it. She spoke too finely for one who was supposed be nothing more than an Ironborn woman from Pyke, she read maps too well to not have some experience with command and navigation, she moved too smoothly and held her axe with too much deft finesse, it all felt wrong for some reason, and he couldn't tell why...but regardless of it all, she was too useful as a navigator and sailor for him to feel safe asking her why.  
  
"She's right," Davos agreed. "I might not have been on a voyage as long as this one will be, but she is right. Smoked sausage and some ham would make for a good change, and would keep for awhile too."  
  
"Then we will see what they have at the markets when we arrive," Tyrion said at last, leaning onto the rails. "We have more than enough coin to be able to buy some good food and a few luxuries, and if it keeps me from being thrown overboard by mutineers..."  
  
"If there is a mutiny on Tywin's new ship, then we have done things terribly wrong," Davos seemed to laugh as he spoke. "Everyone here knows that they won't ever see their families again if you go over the railings.""  
  
"Then I best stay clear of them," Tyrion smiled, walking away from the rails. "Lest I fall over the edge and my father has everyone killed instead of giving them their reward."  
  
"You might still get your tour, though," Davos answered warmly. "What about you, Esgred? What is your reward for being part of the crew?"  
  
"The journey is my reward," she answered stiffly. "Everyone from the Iron Islands is a traveller at heart, and this ship gives me a chance to go somewhere few other Ironborn have ever gone before."  
  
"I had thought you would ask him for the ship itself or a pile of coin," Tyrion said with mild amusement.  
  
"He offered me gold dragons at first, but gold doesn't have much value on the isles. We pay the iron price," she said. "But experience does."  
  
"And how many Ironborn raiders can boast of having sailed so far south?"  
  
"Exactly," the Ironborn woman answered with a small smile and a nod. "Not many can. That's reason enough for me to want to do so."  
  
Tyrion smiled, and curious, he walked over to the railings watching over the main deck before shouting down to the largely built Northern clansman, who was sat with the others. "Artos! Why are you here? What reward has my father promised you?"  
  
"Why is it you want to know?" the clanner asked with suspicion.  
  
"I merely wish to know my crew better," Tyrion said truthfully.  
  
"Gold," came the answer then, Artos' voice as deep and powerful sounding as a drum. "It will help me feed my clan when the winter comes, as more food can be bought than we can grow ourselves."  
  
"I'm doing it for a new shirt," Anguy japed, the men around him laughing before he said the truth. "He's offered me a place in the Rock as a trainer for his bowmen...I could make more money travelling and doing archery tourneys, but this would be regular pay and I wouldn't need to travel around anymore either."  
  
"A smart choice," Davos said to the marcher, his hands on the rail. "You'll make more coin in the long run and have a place to spend it well, and it'll be safer for you, too."  
  
"That's what I think, too," Anguy smiled. "It worked for you."  
  
"Aye, it did," Davos answered, his voice soft and warm, as if he were speaking to one of his own sons. "Mayhaps one day your grandsons will have a keep of their own, like the Cleganes."  
  
Anguy smiled then, hoping, and Tyrion was sure he heard Sandor grumbling somewhere beneath the deck, doing whatever it was he was doing.  
  
"Something's on the horizon," Esgred said suddenly with a squint of her blue eyes before raising the far-eye again as the laughter died and an uneasy attention rose. "A war galley, looks like a two decker."  
  
"Redwynes?" Tyrion asked, looking towards the distance to see the warship sailing towards them.  
  
The Ironborn woman put her hand over her open eye for a moment. "Her sail is furled, but I see what must be the outline of a bushel of grapes on them, and men-at-arms aboard. Definitely a Redwyne ship, probably on patrol."  
  
"Then we must be closer than we thought," Tyrion smiled. "Take us pass their side. If we're a little off course, we'll able to ask them for directions,"  
  
"It won't take long for us to close the distance," the Onion Knight said as he took the tiller, the men-at-arms coming onto the deck in case they were needed, the massive Clegane behind them, his hound visor lowered and ready for battle. "They're coming this way."  
  
"Probably curious as to what a ship flying Lannister colors is doing so far south," Esgred sighed.  
  
Then there was the high wail of a horn, and their own hornman replied with two bursts of the louder and deeper roar of the _King Gerold_ , and two sails were raised to slow the ship enough that the vessels might meet without the risk of having the massive carrack snapping off all the galleys oars as they passed...but Ser Davos kept them a fair distance away still, in case they thought to throw a boarding hook for whatever reason.  
  
"Greetings!" Tyrion shouted as he stood by the railing, little taller than it was. "We're heading to the Arbor! Are we on the right course?"  
  
"Almost," came the returning cry of a low ranking nobleman, a household knight stood on the warship's deck all in purple, grapes on his tabard. "But what in Seven's name is a Lannister ship doing here?"  
  
"I am Tyrion Lannister," he shouted back, introducing himself before saying a half-truth. "My father has allowed me to go on a tour of the Free Cities! We're on to the Arbor to pick up supplies before going onto Lys!"  
  
"That isn't exactly the truth," Ser Davos muttered quietly.  
  
"I know," Tyrion answered. "But the things my father will do to me if the Redwynes claim it will make what the Valyrians did to the Gogossosi look like a mercy."  
  
"He doesn't have a fleshsmith, though," the onion knight shuddered, remembering the eerie words said at their meal with the former maester a few weeks before.  
  
"Very well!" came the replying shout at last. "You seem like you are heading off course! Here!"  
  
The Redwyne knight pointed towards the horizon, holding his arm straight and steady for Davos to catch the bearing, turning the King Gerold onto its new course.  
  
"The Arbor is that way!" the knight shouted. "We'll escort you the rest of the way!"  
  
"We've been making great speed, but you know the waters!" Tyrion shouted back, smiling. "A barrel of wine to whoever makes it there first!"  
  
There was laughter from the men of both ships then, and in the distance of the other ship he thought he saw a smile in reply to his challenge.  
  
"Very well!" came the answer. "But a Lannister best pay his debts!"  
  
"As will you!" Tyrion shouted in reply at last, before turning towards Ser Davos, smiling. "Ser Davos, it seems we won't have to buy any wine once we reach port. Full sail."  
  
"This isn't a fair race," Davos laughed as the men unfurled the two sails that had slowed the ship down enough to match the wargalley's speed. "But I won't object to free wine."  
  
"Fair? I'm a Lannister, Ser Davos," Tyrion answered as he gripped the wooden rail as the ship jerked forward, the winds catching in her sails and pushing her forward at full speed again. "I have a reputation as a cheating scoundrel to uphold. One moment."  
  
"Fair winds to you!" Tyrion shouted back to the galley captain, barely hearing his own voice over the sound of furious drumming coming from the Redwyne warship's hold. "We'll see you in port!"  
  
He swore he heard a curse in reply, but Tyrion simply smiled as the _King Gerold_ sailed by, holding its speed at twice that of the war galley's briefly sustained top, leaving her behind before the oarsmen could even bring their ship around.  
  
"I do hope the wine is an Arbor gold," Tyrion said at last.  
  


****  
**End of Part 1!  
**  



	2. From the Arbor to the Stepstones.

****  
**A few hours later, The Arbor...**  


Tyrion smiled as he sat upon the edge of the ship's railing, watching as the nimble wooden body of the _King Gerold_ rushed its way through the waves at full speed, cutting through the waters like a dagger cutting through cake, faster than any galley could ever hope to match...no matter how much the captain of the Redwyne galley might have wished otherwise. He tucked his small legs in behind the supports of the railings, so that he might not go overboard if the ship struck a strong swell, waiting for the thin fog of the early noon that concealed the isle of the Arbor from view to dissipate, eager for a chance to finally see the place where the grapes that made the famous Arbor reds and golds were grown and squashed into one of the finest wines in all of the Seven Kingdoms. But more importantly than simply visiting the island were the supplies he was to pick up; if there was anything that the Ironborn knew, it was sailing, and Esgred's mention of how the winds would be less favorable when heading eastwards and the need to pick up fresh supplies and plenty of them kept his attentions more than anything else, even the thought of pretty Arbor girls eager for Lannister gold and cupfuls of a good red aged and chilled in a cellar for a good fifty years or more.  
  
"Thinking of the port, my lord?" Davos asked, leaning on the railing alongside.  
  
"I have always wished to visit the Arbor," Tyrion said truthfully, tipping his head towards the onion knight. "My father would never let me go. No doubt he was afraid I would drown myself in wine if he let me go there."  
  
"What other reason is there to go to the Arbor?" came the voice of Bronn, the sellsword on the deck and cleaning his blade with an oiled rag to keep the moisture of the ocean's mist at bay for a little while longer.  
  
Tyrion laughed, and nodded. "I doubt there is any other."  
  
"Might be a good idea for us to pick up a barrel or two on the return journey," Davos reasoned. "Arbor gold goes for half the price it does here than it does on the mainland."  
  
"You've been to the Arbor before, Ser?"  
  
"Aye, before I was knighted," came the grizzled man's answer. "Too many ships come and go through the port for the harbormen to be able to check them all thoroughly. A little sail ship can slip in and out before someone has made them pay their fees, and if you have a few friends in the port you can have your own cargo loaded and be off before they even noticed you there at all."  
  
"We won't be so fortunate," Tyrion said with a glance to the ship's great and distinctive sails, massive sheets of deep crimson with a bright gold lion on each and every one. "How much are the fees? I won't have my beloved father needing to send another ship down here to pay a ransom for us to leave."  
  
"Not much; the Redwynes make most of their coin through trade, and keeping the port busy means more trade," Davos answered, glancing towards the horizon as he did. "A silver stag for a day or two, normally. They might want more because we're bigger and take up more space."  
  
"Then that is nothing that we cannot afford, seeing as my lord father was so generous when provisioning us for the voyage, even if he gave us more pickled herring than I ever hoped to see," Tyrion japed, to the Seaworth's amusement. "Can your friends get us a good deal on fresh supplies? It matters little what it is, so long as it is fresh and there is enough of it to see us to Lys."  
  
"Not anymore."  
  
"How come? Have they been knighted as well?"  
  
"They got caught," Bronn said simply, sheathing his sword only to be glared at by the former smuggler with harsh eyes as he reached into a pocket and drew out a grotty apple of reddish-brown, biting deep before adding with a full mouth as the sweet juice ran down his cheek. "It wasn't me that did it, I was just in the tavern when it happened between jobs. The watch kicked the door down, dragged them out onto the street and knifed 'em then and there."  
  
There was a moment's quiet, then.  
  
"...then it would be best for us to _not_ do anything that might get the watch's ire," Tyrion Lannister said at last. "Having a blade in my guts won't be good for our journey."  
  
"Then it will be expensive to stock up again," Davos said quietly. "These Arbormen know that they make their coin from the traders, and that the ships that call in their ports have little choice but to pay what they ask for."  
  
"Land in sight!" came Esgred's cry from the ship's aft castle. "Must be the Arbor."  
  
"And here we are," Tyrion said with a smile as he jumped down from the rails, landing on both his feet with a soft thud, addressing all those still gathered on the ship's deck from that morning, most still gambling to pass the time between one command or another. "Ser Davos, I will need your help to find my way through the city, and Bronn to keep me safe from anyone who thinks us easy pickings."  
  
"Him?" Clegane said with an amused scoff. "You'd be lucky if he doesn't stab you himself."  
  
"Not much money that way," Bronn said with a shrug of his shoulders as he rose to his feet, buttoning his shirt.  
  
"As for you, Clegane," Tyrion said, turning his attentions to the towering Sandor Clegane, a man so tall and so infamous as to be recognized in any crowd, a dead giveaway that Tyrion Lannister was on a mission of great importance to his house. "The crew will be on leave till we return. Find a good brothel and keep everyone out of trouble and close to the shore for when we leave."  
  
There was a grumble, then, but the crew perked up at the news of shore leave and their chance to stretch their legs and feel a woman's warmth - since it was plainly obvious by now that Esgred would not be sharing hers and that she had an axe for anyone who tried to charm their way into her leggings - and spend some time away from the ship and its holds. Not many would remain on the ship, though Qyburn surely would, but Tyrion was certain that none would stay ashore and abandon the rest of the crew, that he knew, as the journey had been so entirely pleasant as to make the rich payments that his lord father was offering seem like easy coin...and of course, Sandor Clegane knew their faces and could drag them back to the ship, though Tyrion was sure that wouldn't be necessary, and turned his attentions back towards the Arbor, where he could see a soft blinking of light in the distance, that of a lighthouse and its laborers hiding and revealing the flame over and over again to draw attention to it, and it was as though the bursts of light drove away the mist the way fire might banish darkness, revealing the Arbor in all its majesty for him to see.  
  
It was huge.  
  
It was the largest island he had ever seen, larger than Dragonstone or any of the Iron Islands or any other island in the realm, and flatter than he might have expecting, rolling just as the northwestern lands of the Reach did, the sun shining off the hills and fields and making them look as bright as Lannister gold. On its shores he saw a town nestled within a natural harbor, a wealthy place of white stone houses and roofs of bright orange tiles, all dotted with the openings of windows for when the summer heat grew too great and all placed on good stone roads, and not far from the coastal town he knew to be Ryamsport was a small fortress on a nearby hill, covering the seaward approach towards the settlement and from where a road trailed down the hills towards a cove that was the home of some two dozen war galleys, separate from the rest of the harbor and eternally ready for battle, with scorpions and catapults at the ready and lookouts peering out towards the _King Gerold_ and every other ship that came and went through the bay of the Arbor's most precious port town, and it was the port that dominated the town more than anything else; it was a grand thing, perhaps only a third the size of Lannisport's own and yet lavishly equipped with an arsenal of piers and quay walls and cranes and warehouses and drydocks and taverns and brothels and everything else that might be needed for ship and crew alike, and all of it was in good condition too, as much a sign of a healthy market and a wealthy people as the dozens of merchant ships anchored alongside, Tyrion recognizing the purple hulls of Braavosi traders and the banners of Lysene, Myrish and Pentosi merchantmen, most of them galleys but for a handful of sail ships like his own, even a pair of Summer Islander swanships, a forest's worth of timber between them all.  
  
"Take us in," he said with a smile.  
  
"Aye," Ser Davos answered, turning on his heels and marching towards the aft to take the tiller and steer her in himself. "Furl top and foresail! We'll be able to glide in on our mainsail and bowsprit sail alone, and do so without smashing our prow off the quay."  
  
The crew hurried to the captain's command, and in a few moments the ship began to slow as the sailors raised the ship's sails and secured them tightly, the _King Gerold_ 's sprint becoming a leisurely walk, and he felt the wind move through his hair more softly than it did before and the sound of the waves and the caress of its spray become calm as the large sailer made its way into port, Ser Davos navigating with a deft and practiced hand and looping the ship around inside the bay before turning it around towards the end of a long pier, a place that would allow them to leave more quickly, the sailors rolling away the last of the ship's sails as she finally slowed to a halt and dropped anchor, the wooden lion coming to a complete stop alongside the wharf, quickly dropping the disembarkation ramp and going ashore with the mooring ropes to tether the ship at six different places, ensuring that it couldn't simply float away whilst everyone was ashore.  
  
"Welcome to the Arbor and Ryamsport!" came the voice of an aging man dressed in Redwyne colors who looked towards Ser Davos, escorted by six men-at-arms in chain and followed by a gang of laborers, a hint of greed forming in his tone of voice as he smiled at the sight of the gold and crimson of the _King Gerold's_ sails. "I am Desmond, master of this port, and I greet any who fly Lannister colors well. Who are you, and for what purpose is your visit? Are you merchant or messenger?"  
  
"I am Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin, and we are neither," Tyrion said, striding across the deck, the harbormaster's eyes snapping towards the dwarf and filled with surprised realization. "We are here to pick up supplies for the next part of our journey, as my lord father has seen fit to allow me a tour of the Free Cities and I want to waste no time."  
  
"But of course," the harbormaster bowed deeply before returning to his full stature once more. "Shall I send message of your arrival to Lord Redwyne inland? He would be honored to have you here as his guest for a night or more."  
  
"Alas I must decline, for my father has given us leave for only a short time," Tyrion answered carefully...before answering. "But we will need to stop here upon our return, and if I have time left...well, I am sure my father will be happy to know of Lord Redwyne and his hospitality."  
  
"Very well then," the harbormaster said with another, slighter bow, sending away his waiting laborers with a flick of his wrist. "I will send a message that you are simply passing through, but that you might stay for longer later on if time's allow."  
  
"Thank you," Tyrion smiled, the harbormaster weakly returning one of the same. "As for the harbor fees...I trust they are not too pricey? My lord father will not be happy to know his son was beggared by a harbormaster."  
  
"No, not at all my lord," the harbormaster said quickly, trying to find the best words he could. "For you, an honored guest of my lords...there will be no fee, of course not, and I shan't trouble you with inspection either since you won't be here for long."  
  
"Very generous of you," Tyrion said as he walked up the steps and down the disembarkation ramp, followed closely by the Seaworth captain and the smiling sellsword. "I will make sure to remember that my stay here was a good and quick one."  
  
The harbormaster nodded and retreated with a bow, his guards following, and once they were out of earshot, once the three were amidst the crowds that dominated every harborfront in the known world watching the rest of the crew disembark, Davos smiled. "Remind me never to play cards with a Lannister."  
  
"But Ser Davos, we have so much coin to play with," Tyrion answered cheerfully. "It could make you rich."  
  
"Aye, and you have a face like a statue," the smuggler knight laughed. "At least now we won't need to pay for visiting or have our holds checked. That should save us some coin and trouble, at least for awhile anyhow."  
  
"...and we are going to be spending a lot of coin today," Tyrion said as he turned towards his companions. "So where do we go? I doubt a butcher's stall has enough meat for a ship's worth of men."  
  
"They do here," Bronn said flatly, glancing at the people all around and never taking his hand far from his sword before pointing down one of the streets. "Port like this always has the venders all in one place, taking orders for their warehouses so they can load all the ships at once and save time as they do."  
  
"And it'll be cheaper than ordering it from a market too," Davos agreed. "Every port has its provisioners, and they make their coin selling by the load."  
  
"Esgred suggested more variety in the food, and I agree with her. Another plate of smoked herring and I'll be as mad as Aerys was," Tyrion sighed. "We will need cheese, ham, crackers, sausage...wine too, and a lot of it all."  
  
"We're not far from the heart of the Reach," Davos started. "Even if they have to bring some food over by ship I cannot see it higher than sixty dragons for the lot, along with a few luxuries."  
  
"And..." Tyrion started, thinking back towards the unnerving meeting with the former maester not too long before and his tales of fleshsmiths and other Gogossosi horrors, all of which almost snuffed out his memories of the rest of the conversation, but there was one important thing he managed to remember through the haze of wine and herring. "...fruit. We will have need of it, if what Qyburn said was true."  
  
"...that will make things more expensive," the onion knight sighed. "And it won't last long enough for us to reach Lys either."  
  
"Then I will need to find something that can," Tyrion said. "I would rather not lose all my teeth and die on this journey because we ran out of apples. But we can deal with that later. Lead the way."  
  
"Aye," the onion knight answered, turning away from the streets that led into the town and its market and down the harbor front, towards the warehouses of the west. "Even if it takes you a while to find a way, it doesn't matter too much; we've been making good speed ever since we left port, and even if we do slow down from here on we'll still be far ahead of where we would be in a galley."  
  
"But every minute we spend here is a minute spent not travelling," Tyrion answered, turning his head to be sure that their sellsword escort was still there...and he was, moving with all the agility of a prowling shadowcat, ever aware of their surroundings and ever closeby, humming the tune of _the Bear and the Maiden Fair_ softly as he followed. "How did you end up here before anyhow?"  
  
"I finished one job and was waiting for another," came the sellsword's fast answer. "Most merchants take on a bunch of sellswords for when they pass the Stepstones, just in case, then let them all go after they make it through which lets them be picked up by another ship. Pay's regular. Not _great_ , but regular."  
  
"What made you stop doing it?"  
  
"A mutiny did," the sellsword answered with a shrug. "Wasn't even us, it was the oarsmen who did it over low pay."  
  
Tyrion laughed. "How did that end _without_ you being thrown overboard?"  
  
"Easy," the sellsword smiled. "We gave them the captain."  
  
"I thought he hired you to protect him?"  
  
"Aye, he did, but from _pirates_ ," Bron answered innocently. "He never mentioned anything about mutineers. Friendly lot once we got to port afterwards, even helped us find a ship to get back to Westeros. I think they all got hung not long after that."  
  
Tyrion was about to answer when Ser Davos spoke again, smiling. "Here we are. The provisioners. "  
  
Tyrion turned his attentions to to his surroundings, and they were not a market, not a where vendors used bright cloth and well carved signs to draw the attentions of wandering townsfolk and the occasional lord or lady, no, this was something much different, feeling more akin to a tavern than not; it was a large square surrounded by warehouses on all sides but the open one that faced the port and allowed for the passage of handcarts and the rolling of barrels and the carrying of crates, with a horseshoe like crescent of plain wooden tables in the midst with plain signs above saying what it was that they sold and a thick crowd of captains and their most competent and trustworthy crewmembers, making deals with one another and arrangements to swap cargoes and discussing prices and the weather and the movement of known pirates, sharing all the information with one another freely. Everywhere his eyes looked he saw another item of the seafarer's trade - there was not only stores of food and drink here, but rolls of thick sailcloth ready to be cut down to size or sewn together as needed, enormous coils of rope that were like great brown serpents ready to strike and devour him whole, next to an arsenal's worth of of racks that held oars and hammers and saws and every other woodworking tool one could find in the best carpenter's workshop. At each table sat plainly dressed merchantmen or the sons or workers of them, with large books full of records of transactions made and transactions waiting to be finished, writing with their quills as fast as any maester and regular dipping them back into their inkpots in a thirst for dark liquid.  
  
There was no queue, no delay between men coming and going to the tables and placing their orders or asking when they would be due, and so Tyrion looked upwards and read the signs above before walking over towards the food vender, a brown haired man so young as to be no more than twenty five years of age, brow covered in the beads of sweat that came from the uncharacteristic warmth of the long summer and from being outside in the sun working and writing all day whilst dressed in thick, hard wearing work clothes of wool and leather, and it was work that he did; his hands moved twice as quick as those of Grand Maester Pycelle, though the writing was barely legible at all as a result, but Tyrion could still read it well enough to understand what it was that was being written and he saw a long list of ship names and their captains and what they had requested and what they would have to pay, covering page after page of thick waterproof parchment. Tyrion was rather taken aback by all of it, having never been to a store such as this before or even anything that was even remotely similar, no, his experiences with merchantmen were limited to seeing them in court or at their stalls and stores on the market squares of King's Landing and Lannisport, but here he was on their own ground, within a castle of commerce where coins were like banners and customers battles fought and lost.  
  
"I will need the name of yourself and your ship," came the quick request, the man not raising his eye from his work for even an instant except to dip his quill into its well and continue his scribbling.  
  
"I am Tyrion, of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. My ship is the King Gerold. I am here to take on supplies."  
  
The man looked up to him then, but if there was any amazement or even interest in meeting a Lannister of Casterly Rock, he showed none of it before returning to his work, flipping through a few pages to an empty entry before deftly writing down the name of man and ship alike. "What is it that you need?"  
  
"Crackers -"  
  
Immediately the man reached below the table and drew out a small package, just over a foot in length and not even a third of that across and almost perfectly square, its surface sheen with the color of thick wax around the packaging. "Thirty to a pack, each at least three inches across and half an inch thick, with ten packs to a box and fifteen boxes for twenty dragons or twenty five boxes for thirty. More and it's five boxes for three dragons."  
  
"More than enough for our voyage," said Ser Davos quietly. "A good deal if there ever was one."  
  
"Twenty five will do," he said, watching as the man quickly jotted down the number. "Now for cheese."  
  
Again, the man reached beneath the table and drew out six small rounds of cheese one by one, each about the size and width of his own hand and as thick as the gap between thumb and forefinger, protected by thick linen wraps. "I have six cheeses, all matured for around six to twelve months and no longer or less; I have reds and yellows from the Riverlands, whites hard and crumbly from the Reach and medium Stormlander with cranberries or apricot, and have all of them in wheels this size and at twenty two pounds. Fifty stags for five wheels for the small ones other than for the Stormlander fruit cheeses which come at one hundred stags for five, or sixty stags for a mixture of all five. Prices for large wheels are two dragons a wheel or five dragons for three wheels and three dragons for a Stormlander cheese of either kind, with three wheels for seven dragons. Mix of both large wheels brings it down to five."  
  
"The Stormlands are a wet place, but you would be a fool to say they don't make the best cheeses in all Seven Kingdoms," Ser Davos said with a smile. "And they might not make much wine, but they have the best ciders, too. Best to go with the large ones."  
  
"That would be _sixty six pounds_ of cheese for a crew of fifty five," Tyrion said with disbelief, looking towards the onion knight with surprise. "How much cheese could we possibly eat on our way there?"  
  
"When you've got crackers as your main meal of the day, you want anything you can put on them," Ser Davos explained. "As many different kinds as you can get."  
  
"Fine, give me two of each kind of cheese. The large wheels," Tyrion said at last. "I am a Lannister after all. It's not like I am going to run out of coin buying cheese."  
  
The sellsword and the smuggler knight laughed then, and even the merchant seemed to smile ever so slightly as he jotted down the next bit of Tyrion's order. "Anything else?"  
  
"Much," Tyrion said. "I will need fish, meat, butter, chickpeas, flour, butter, bread, honey, a basket of fruit and ale."  
  
"Might be we're having a feast at this point," the sellsword laughed.  
  
"Smoked fish is sold by the barrel, one dragon for four barrels," the vendor said, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he leaned on the table, thinking deeply. "Smoked meats are...two barrels for one dragon, or a coil of twelve cured sausages for sixty stags."  
  
"Seven hells," Tyrion murmured under his breath. "How do the smallfolk ever eat with these kind of prices?"  
  
"Food is always more expensive when the market is rich, but these aren't the kind of sausage you might see when you break your fast," Ser Davos explained. "They're five times as thick, so a single slice serves a man. Saves space over lots of small sausages, and the barrels are bigger too."  
  
"Plain butter and honey both come in a pot one foot across and one deep, for thirty stags a piece," the food merchant continued. "Chickpeas and flour by the sackful, fifteen stags a piece, bread is six full loaves in waxed parchment in a wooden box to protect against mice and rats, six boxes for sixty stags. Fruit is by the basket with some one hundred and fifty apples or pears, a dragon per basket. Ale is a hundred stags a barrel, and good Reachman ale besides."  
  
"I'll be damned if we run out of food before we reach Lys, and I won't have my crew eating little on the way there," Tyrion said. "Here is my final order, all at once: twenty five boxes of crackers for thirty gold dragons, nine large wheels of cheese for fifteen dragons and another three Stormlander ones for seven dragons, of either kind. Then I want six barrels of fish for one and a half dragons, four barrels of meat for two dragons, two pots of butter and two pots of honey for one hundred and twenty stags, two sacks of peas and flour for sixty stags, six boxes of bread for sixty stags and two baskets of fruit for two dragons. Oh, and four barrels of ale, for four hundred stags."  
  
Then he turned to a stunned Ser Davos as the merchantman quickly wrote down the remainder of his order..  
  
"When we return to the ship, take those barrels of pickled herring and send them to any sept that will take them in for charity."  
  
"Very generous of you, my lord," Ser Davos said with a warm smile before adding more quietly. "And the men will call it a kindness not to have to eat so much of it."  
  
"Precisely why I am ordering so much food and so little ale," Tyrion answered. "The herring may as well be sand for the thirst it gives."  
  
"Alright, total price for the order is...sixty gold dragons and a hundred stags."  
  
"Make that sixty one gold dragons," Tyrion said. "I have little silver, and feel generous."  
  
The merchantman smiled properly then. "Very well, sixty one gold dragons. It should be at your ship by sunset and no later."  
  
"Then we have till sunset to find a kind of fruit that can last from here to Lys without rotting in Dornish heat," Tyrion said, turning to Ser Davos. "Any ideas where to start?"  
  
"If you need fruit that can last that kind of journey, mayhaps you should find some jam?" the merchant said softly, to Tyrion's interest. "The heat's been so harsh lately that the vintners have been worried that it might ruin the grapes and make for poor wine. You might be able to buy part of their harvest and have it made into jam if you have the coin for it."  
  
Tyrion reached into his coin purse, took out a gold dragon and flicked it onto the table with his thumb.  
  
"Then we best be going," he said as he turned from the table, towards his two companions. "Have either of you ever been outside of the ports before?"  
  
"I have never had a need to," Ser Davos answered as Bronn shook his head.  
  
"Then we will have to find them ourselves," Tyrion said, before walking towards the town, whistling as the two followed him.  
  
And follow they did; the town was a large one, but not even a village when compared to the sprawling mass of squalid hovels and dank workshops that made up much of King's Landing's heart, and not too impressive when one had seen the stone streets of Lannisport glittering gold in the setting sun...but it was a safe and pleasant place all the same, much more so than many parts of the capital anyhow. Like any city or town, there was a certain kind of thinking to the way it was lain out and the way it had grown as more and more people lived within its boundaries, something that was as much a rule as how trees had trunks and leaves upon their branches, even if they might look completely different from one to the next - everything of importance and expense was close to the port, with the best brothels and the best taverns all within a few minutes walk of the piers so as to draw in sailors and captains fresh from their voyages and whose pockets were full of coin or those wealthy travellers passing from one place to the next, and then came the much cheaper ones that were like sponges to suck up the last little bit of coin from the crews and for the local dockworkers and the other laborers to use, then came the homes that housed the dockworkers and the workshops that helped support their shipyards by making tools and rope and everything else that might be needed in their day to day work, and then the town became as any other, getting wealthier the closer one came to the market and poorer as one got closer to the outermost parts of the settlement...and to where there were supposed to be walls, but weren't, though for one as learned as Tyrion it was obvious why none had been built, for what need was there for barriers of stone and mortar when the Redwyne fleets were a wooden wall in their war galleys and an army in its sailors and marines, ever ready to defend their island from all comers?  
  
But past the empty space where any other town would have had the start of its fortifications, past the ground that would have been the foundation for walls, past the place where the shadows of towers would fall, was a sight familiar to every town and city of any true worth - the horsetrader, at the very edge of the town, his steeds left out on a makeshift pasture and with a stables all of their own as great as that of any knight, full of the destriers and palfreys that all the chivalry of the south needed in times of both war and peace, on the tourney field and off it, great steeds that were the result of generations of careful breeding and each worth near as much as a lord's ransom. Here, a young lordling might get his first mount or warhorse as a gift from their father just as an old knight could put his most trusted companion out to pasture so that they might be able to spend their last few years of life in peace and leisure away from the battlefield or the lists, and it was here that Tyrion would need to find a mount if they were to travel to the vineyards deeper in land in a timely fashion...but buying a horse solely for a single ride was folly, and trying to carry it on the rest of their voyage even more so. But he had a plan, as he always did, and he walked up towards the trader, a kindly looking old man whose brown hair had long since turned to grey and who looked to the dwarf with curious eyes, whistling as he did before coming to a halt, examining the horses on show in their pasture and looking for the strongest, most regal of them all.  
  
"What might I be able to do for you, m'lord?" the horsetrader asked, coming over. "Are you in need of a steed?"  
  
"I am looking for a few horses," Tyrion said. "It will soon be my nephew Joffrey's nameday, and the prince has always wanted a well bred mount from the Reach for his rides through the Crownlands...mayhaps one for my father and my brother, too, we Lannisters have always had an appreciation for good horses in the Westerlands."  
  
The horsetrader's eyes lit up with a mix of greed and pride then, as clear as a bright burning torch in the midst of a dark night, and all beneath a realization as to whom he was talking to and to whom Tyrion was referring.  
  
"Of course, of course," the horsetrader said quickly before whistling for a stableboy, a young lad of some eight years who must have been a grandson or some other relation by the look of him. "Find that brother of yours and bring me our best three palfrey, and quickly."  
  
Their was a hurried nod and a quiet answer, and the stableboy ran off to carry out his elder's orders, and Tyrion simply turned towards the horses in the field, smiling...but cautious, as only a buyer examining the wares on offer before him could be.  
  
"You breed fine horses," Tyrion said. "Even by the standards of the Reach."  
  
"You honor me, m'lord."  
  
"But I am concerned for one thing."  
  
"...m'lord?" the horsetrader asked with obvious concern, afraid of having so great a purchase, so great a fame as to providing the prince's own steed, slipping from his grasp. "What is it?"  
  
"How am I to know if you're steeds will stay as strong as they appear to be once we leave the Arbor?" Tyrion asked, before gesturing to Ser Davos Seaworth and the common sellsword Bronn. "These two men are horsemen from King's Landing, from the king's own stables, and few know horses better than them. They are to help me find a mount _worthy_ of the prince and for a Lord Paramount and the son of one, but they have seen very fine mounts in other parts of the realm."  
  
"Aye, we have," Bronn added. "In Dorne."  
  
"Dorne...? You mean their Dornish sand steeds?" the horsetrader asked with unease and no little amount of fear. "Their horses are great indeed...but none can match the strength of a Reachman's steed."  
  
"They let us ride theirs for a few hours, to prove that they are the best at breeding horses," Tyrion said. "Perhaps...no, it would be a silly thing..."  
  
Just so, the horsetrader turned towards the stables and shouted. "Ready them for a ride, too!"  
  
Tyrion smiled.  
  
"Thank you," he said. "If they are worthy of the prince or of my kin, then I will make sure that the entire realm knows where they came from."  
  
There was a quick and hopeful nod in answer, then...and despite Tyrion lying about everything, about his nephew getting a horse for his nameday, the steeds that were brought forth a few minutes later by the stableboys were genuinely worthy of the tale that he had spun, proud and regal things of pure seamless white in masterfully made saddles, towering and strong and yet of a steady temperament, like three equine knights of the Kingsguard ever ready to carry out their sworn and solemn duty. The elder of the two stableboys, the one that he had seen before, placed a small set of wooden steps besides the greatest of the three, one that had been prepared especially for him with a saddle meant for the short legs of a dwarf, and Tyrion calmly stepped forward and climbed onto the first of the horses, and his companions quickly followed, Bronn easily climbing atop the second and Ser Davos last, showing the naval origin of his knighthood in the difficulty of mounting a horse, but once he was on and in the stirrups he found his way quick enough.  
  
"We will be back soon, and if they are good enough we will buy them, if there are none better in our tour of the realm," Tyrion said. The horsetrader bowed in reply...  
  
...and off the three went, riding off towards the hills in the distance, their steeds ambling along so smoothly as to be both quick and comfortable for rider and horse alike, better than any horse that Tyrion had ever ridden before, and so much so as to tempt him as to try and make the arrangements to buy one for himself, but that would have to wait till their voyage was over and done with at the very least, since it was not like he could buy such a fine beast and then stuff it in the cargo hold for months on end.  
  
"If this is what the horses of the highborn are like, its no wonder they stay on them all the time," Davos said contentedly as they rode, the road beneath turning rougher and grittier without bothering their horses in the slightest. "They can sit around for hours on end."  
  
"Aye," Bronn agreed. "I've never been on a horse this good before. It's like sitting on a chair."  
  
"What horses have you been on?" Tyrion asked, curious...before adding. "...where did you even learn how to ride?"  
  
"If there's one thing that's looted after a battle, it's the horses," Bronn answered. "Besides, having a horse means you can run quicker if things aren't going well. That's why any clever sellsword learns how to ride."  
  
"But you won't be able to run away if we get boarded," Tyrion said.  
  
"Aye, but I can swim."  
  
"In the middle of the ocean?"  
  
"I can swim a lot."  
  
"...are you going to abandon us the moment we run into trouble?" Ser Davos asked then, glaring. "I haven't heard you once speak of standing your ground once all day."  
  
"That's because sellswords like me sell their swords for gold, they don't die for them," Bronn said bluntly. "I'll fight when we need to, and run when we need to. But I won't stand my ground and die, because gold isn't worth anything if I'm not around to _spend_ _it_."  
  
Ser Davos looked to Tyrion then.  
  
"At least he's honest about it," Tyrion shrugged. "Where are you from, anyway? I am a Lannister of Casterly Rock, Davos is a smuggler turned knight, and you...?"  
  
"Me?" Bronn asked before shrugging his shoulders. "I'm just a sellsword. Not much else to know."  
  
"No great battles? No stories to tell?"  
  
"Not really," Bronn said. "Been in so many fights they stop being all that exciting."  
  
"Then who was your hardest fight against?"  
  
"Eh, you wouldn't know them," Bronn answered. "It's not a good story anyway."  
  
"I've read books."  
  
"Gerold Hightower."  
  
Tyrion laughed.  
  
"You fought the White Bull?" Tyrion answered. "You look well for being dead for fourteen years."  
  
"Might be I did," Bronn answered. "Might be I'm bored and just trying to make this ride go quicker."  
  
"Then who have you truly fought against?"  
  
"Who haven't I fought against?" Bronn asked, before shrugging his shoulders. "Braavosi are tough. Very fast on their feet. Dothraki like to think that footmen are 'neath them, so they don't try and fight them. They don't think it's fair."  
  
"You've fought Dothraki?"  
  
"Lots of times," Bronn answered, telling the truth this time by the feel of things. "There isn't much business for a sellsword in Westeros these days. Too quiet. Essos is where all the sellswords make their coin, and half of it is against the Dothraki here or there, usually supporting their own guards or the Unsullied."  
  
"They only think other horsemen are a threat, so they go after them first, chasing them all round the field," Bronn added, voice filling with amusement. "Once, this one captain came up with an idea to put a thousand spearmen next to each other, split into two groups of five hundred with a gap between, and our horse charged down the mid, the Dothraki followed with those bows of theirs and charged straight into a wall of pikes. They don't wear armor either and spend more time on their horse than off it, so once you kill their horse they're easy to finish. Don't envy the horsemen who fight them, though."  
  
"How come?"  
  
"They go after them first because they don't like anyone else using horses," Bronn explained. "Don't want to get caught by them either. They don't like sellswords much. They don't like anyone who isn't Dothraki much either. They won't torture you, though, they'll just sell you to Astapor and the rest. And they hate the sea."  
  
"Really?" Ser Davos asked. "Why?"  
  
"They don't like a lot of things, but they _really_ don't like the things their horses don't like, and horses won't drink seawater, so Dothraki won't touch anything larger than a riverbarge, and won't go through a thorn bush either. They love their horses too much to make them suffer riding through it. That's how the people in Andalos survive."  
  
"People are still alive in Andalos?" Tyrion asked with mild surprise. "I thought they were all wiped out?"  
  
"Nah, they're still around if you look hard enough," Bronn said. "Met some Andalosi in a tavern in Pentos once. Dangerous men, the lot of 'em."  
  
"How dangerous?"  
  
"Very. They keep to themselves nowadays, though, so you won't find them fighting anyone outside of Andalos."  
  
Tyrion was ready to respond, but looked to the front and saw a large house and winery upon a hill in the distance, surrounded by fields of wooden frames and stakes and posts, all of which connected together to create an immense forest of grapevines, their leaves yellow in the light of the afternoon sun and hanging heavy with great bundles of bright green grapes...and yet, as they rode closer, he saw brown patches on curling leaves and orange scars on the grapes themselves, and heard the sobs of a horrified vintner, lost amidst his crops.  
  
"Hello?" Tyrion shouted. "Are you alright?"  
  
"It is all ruined!" came the reply, the sobbing man emerging from Tyrion's left, cheeks soaked with tears and with an apron covered in dirt and grime, clutching a bundle of off-green grapes in his hands. "The entire field! _Ruined!_ "  
  
"What's wrong? What's happened to ruin the field?"  
  
"The sun!" came the answer, the vintner plucking a grape from the bundle and offering it to Tyrion with an open hand. "Taste! See what it has done to my grapes!"  
  
Tyrion reached out and took the grape from the weeping farmer, taking it in his hand and examining it closely; the skin was shriveled and slightly brown on the one side, his thumb feeling a tiny crack in the hardened surface, and on the rest of it the color was pale and closer to a pale-white than the familiar green of a good grape. He tentatively put it into his mouth, bit...and winced, his mouth filling with immense sweetness and only the barest hint of the greatness that was a cup of the Arbor's famous golden wines, like a ghost haunting its old home and wondering what had gone wrong. It was a terrible thing, and he barely resisted the urge to spit it out onto the roadside, swallowing and swallowing again to keep it down.  
  
"See? See!" the vintner cried. "The entire harvest is like it!"  
  
"What happened to cause this? The sun?"  
  
"Too much of it," came the answer, the winemaker falling into some semblance of calm. "We have had nothing but sun for a week, and it has ruined my fields with its heat and ruined the balance of flavor...and the wine...the wine is undrinkable. Worthless."  
  
The winemaker slumped to the ground, then, holding his head in his hands.  
  
"I am ruined," came a voice little higher than a whisper.  
  
"Cheer up, friend," Ser Davos soothed, obviously troubled to see a man who had so little suffer so much. "What if we were to give you another means of selling your grapes?"  
  
"How? How can I hope to sell them, to feed my wife and children?"  
  
"We have need of jam," Tyrion said. "Months worth of it."  
  
The vintner looked up to him in confusion, then, but hopeful. "...jam?"  
  
"We are heading eastwards on a voyage," Tyrion explained quickly. "We have need of fruit to keep our strength, but fresh fruit will perish too quickly for us to reach our destination, but jam will last much longer, and I will give you twenty dragons for a hundred jars."  
  
"But the grapes are too sweet -"  
  
"With how long we will be at sea for and with what food we have, I doubt anyone will mind much how sweet it might be," Tyrion said. "They'll be happy to simply taste something sweet at all, and mayhaps the jam making will soften the taste."  
  
"Twenty dragons..." the vintner thought aloud. "Twenty dragons...it isn't much, but I could feed my family with twenty dragons till the next harvest, if we are careful..."  
  
"We wouldn't be the only ones to want it either," Davos added. "Many sailors come through this port, might be that they would want a spoonful of it as well."  
  
"It won't be jars, it'll have to come in bottles," the vintner said, rising to his feet once more. "I don't have jars, but I have enough bottles for the harvest...will they do?"  
  
"They could be sealed inside a pig's bladder, so long as they will last a few month's in the hold," Tyrion accepted. "But we need them by tonight."  
  
"Tonight? A hundred jars of jam in so little time?" the vintner asked in surprise. "I'll need everyone in the family to help, and a massive pot..."  
  
"Can you do it?"  
  
"Yes, I think so," the farmer answered. "At the port? What's your ship?"  
  
"The _King Gerold_ , which has a golden lion on red sails," Tyrion explained, turning his horse about. "I will pay you then."  
  
"Then I best hurry!" the vintner said, running towards his home as the three began their journey back towards Ryamsport, the sun hanging lower in the sky than it had before they had set out, making it all too clear that time was running out, a reminder that every moment was precious and that every second not spent travelling was a second their chances of recovering Brightroar grew that tiny bit slimmer, but Tyrion set such thoughts aside for the time being, focusing on the present.  
  
"That was quick," Bronn muttered quietly. "I thought we would end up running all over the place."  
  
"Aye, it was," Davos agreed. "But what now?"  
  
"Now we return these horses and go back to the ship and wait," Tyrion said simply. "Then we continue on our journey or stay in port for the night if we must."  
  
"Best to stay the night," Ser Davos reasoned. "It's easy enough to see which way we are going in day, but at night...one mistake, and we won't have the land to guide us back on course, and all the jam in the world won't save us then."  
  
"Then we will stay and set sail at dawn...I'm sure the men will be happy for the extra time anyway."  
  
"They will be," Davos smiled. "But you're not as eager."  
  
"I admit to having found a fondness for life at sea," he replied. "But every moment we spend in port is a moment we are not travelling and another chance for someone else to find my uncle's shipwreck and take the blade for themselves. My father is many things, but understanding of failure he is not. If we return empty handed, it will be the Wall for me at best and a grave at worst."  
  
"That might be so, but we are weeks ahead of where we would be in any other ship," Davos reasoned again, as he often did, the old smuggler more intelligent and clever than most highborn might expect. "Not many men go where we are going either, not if they don't have a reason to, because of..."  
  
Tyrion knew the word that went unsaid. Fleshsmiths. The term had become a net that had caught all the other horrors that were supposed to exist in the far south, but he refused to think of it, and steeled himself with the knowledge that whatever horrors had once existed in the south surely didn't exist anymore, not with the collapse of Gogossos by plague and the loss of whatever sorceries they had practiced there. Surely...?  
  
Instead, he said another word.  
  
"Trade."  
  
"Aye, trade," Davos agreed quickly, Bronn busying himself by whistling a jaunty tune and paying no attention. "Not much to buy so far south."  
  
Tyrion nodded in agreement, and said nothing more, not a single word till they rode back to the town and returned the horses to their owner with a few muttered words of how they were good steeds and that he might come back for them later if everything was well, and not another word as they walked into the town and through the town to the port, where men with carts were hurrying around the dock in the orange light of the ever lowering sun, starting the task of distributing purchases to all the ships in the port, one at a time, but even that did not bring Tyrion out of his weary state - he was tired, tired from a long day at sea and a longer one ashore, and wanted nothing more than a good cup of wine and a good night's rest without needing to be reminded of fleshsmiths or blood magic or anything else of the sort, a chance to simply relax for a little time once more...  
  
...but what did rouse him from his weary state was the sight of none other than Lancel Lannister, escorted by a pair of men-at-arms in Lannister colors, none of them people who had come with him and who themselves were followed by two more men with a cart of goods.  
  
"Tyrion!" his young cousin said, striding across the port and buried beneath a cloak meant to make him look older and bigger and more knightly than he really was. "We were waiting for you since you went into town."  
  
"We were busy with a matter, now what is it, Lancel?" Tyrion asked, his voice lacking any of the japing nature it might have normally had, replaced by a hardness that could come only from exhaustion.  
  
"I bring a letter from King's Landing, from your brother. Lord Tywin told us of your journey a while ago, and Ser Jaime and Queen Cersei thought you might need some aid," Lancel said with a gesture towards the cart of supplies before passing the intrigued dwarf the letter, still sealed with thick red wax in the shape of a lion's head. "We also bring some supplies from the capital for you, on your brother's request...warm clothes for the nights at sea, a few flagons of spiced wine, soap, and a few other things."  
  
"You must have set out before we did to reach here so quickly," Tyrion sighed as he snapped the seal with his finger. "No doubt my lord father told King's Landing of our journey whilst we were still crossing to Casterly Rock."  
  
"I don't know about that, but I know your sister was happy to send you the things you might need in the south, as Jaime did. She even sent a tether to fasten you to the ship in case of a storm," Lancel said with a smile.  
  
"How nice of her," Tyrion muttered before glancing at the writing, and instantly knowing that it was Pycelle who had written it, not Jaime, and that meant that it was real - his brother could not stand writing, and had little ability at it, and so always dictated to a maester his words and had them write the letters instead, something that meant that his true feelings had always had to be masked, but that he hinted to them the best he might.  
  
_To Tyrion, my little brother, whom I hope this letter finds well,  
  
My message will be short, as I have little time to write it; the king is going on a hunt again and would like myself and Ser Barristan to provide his escort, but I have given as much time to this as I could spare. How are you?  
  
If father and the king had allowed it I would be there with you on the way south, since King's Landing is as quiet and boring as it always is, but they both say my duties are elsewhere - father says that I should stay at the capital to show a Lannister presence at court and Cersei wants me around because she's sick of the place and doesn't want to be on her own here, but we all miss you a great deal. Robert was so drunk the other day he cried when he didn't have you to drink with him to the point that Jon Arryn had to come deal with him, and Myrcella and Tommen are bored. Joffrey and Cersei are like usual, but she and I thought that you might want some things from the capital whilst you're away, so Lancel should have all that with him if he hasn't died on the way to you, though only the Crone knows what she's sent you.  
  
You're going where no Lannister has ever gone before, and Grand Maester Pycelle tells me things about Sothoryos and Gogossos that make me wish I hadn't asked at all. Stay safe, brother.  
  
Jaime._  
  
Tyrion smiled, then, smiled in the way that only the message of a beloved brother could create, and then he turned towards Lancel, folding the letter and keeping it close. "Load all of it onto the ship. We'll have room for it somewhere."  
  
"...I think something's moving in it," Bronn said as he leaned over the cart and plucked out a small wooden box with a dozen holes in it, and for a split second Tyrion saw a hateful eye staring back at him from within followed by an angry hiss.  
  
"That's from Cersei," Lancel said. "She said you might need a companion."  
  
"Bring it aboard," Tyrion said as he started towards the ship.  
  
Bronn shrugged and carried it aboard, following the dwarf and the Seaworth captain, and when he was safely aboard he placed the crate upon the ground.  
  
"I think its a cat," the sellsword said. "Not a happy one either."  
  
"Would you be happy if you were trapped in a cage for how long?" Tyrion asked. "Let them out."  
  
Bronn looked at Tyrion for a moment, then shrugged again and found the small latch upon he side of the box, undoing it before slowly raising the door...  
  
...and sitting still for just a few seconds was the most wretched creature in all of King's Landing, that vicious black tomcat with the ripped ear and the scarred face that stalked the grounds of the Red Keep, a monster to serving girls and seasoned knights alike. It looked around, snarled, and before Bronn could pull his hand back it sank its teeth into the sellsword's hand...and it was only thick leather gloves that stopped the black demon from drawing blood. Bronn yanked backwards quick, and just as quick the cat fled below decks with a furious hiss.  
  
"Oh good," Tyrion sighed. "At least now we have a ratter."  
  


****  
**A few days later, off the southern coast of Dorne...**  


Tyrion stretched and yawned as the King Gerold sailed lazily through the still waters of the Dornish coast beneath a sky of pink and orange, making slow but steady progress towards their easterly direction through day and night, but despite that all around he saw the Lannisport-raised crew were anxious and uneasy, quieter and less jovial than they normally were and eager to gain a few more knots of speed and a quicker pace to hurry them towards their next port, and it was all due to the land in the distance, sandy and dry and with hard shores covered in jagged rocks and with the occasional hidden cove. Dorne. Westermen and Dornishmen had never had much feeling towards one another, being too far from one another to truly care about what the other was doing, though in the distant past there had sometimes been alliances of convenience between Lannister and Martell whenever the Reach became too aggressive and too powerful for either side...but that was a long time gone, now, and any man who was loyal to the Lannister lion made sure that his sword was sharp and at his side whenever he was near the Dornish lands, and the same went for his crew. Even without being ordered to, the scorpions were manned and ready for battle, and the crew always glanced northwards towards distant shores in search of war galleys or others who might think that a lone Lannister ship a tempting prize, and Tyrion was thankful for their vigilance.  
  
His father's men had dashed the skull of the Targaryen prince and butchered the Targaryen princess and violated their mother, that everyone across the realm knew, and another thing that everyone across the realm knew was that the Dornish were always a vengeful sort, nearly as much as the Northmen who had nothing better to do but brood over past misdeeds when the snow was too thick and the outside too cold, and neither the laws of men or gods would stop them from claiming it; they had murdered King Daeron the Dragon beneath a banner of truce and did unspeakable things to Queen Rhaenys of which even the maesters refused to give a full account, and a full blooded Lannister like himself, even a dwarf, would receive a similar punishment for the acts of his kin...and for that reason and that reason alone, there was no plan for them to dock at any place on the Dornish shore or to lower their guard for even a moment. The Dornish were said to have destroyed all their ships and never rebuilt them after Nymeria's War, and King Daeron had written in his book that they had not rebuilt it since due to a lack of both need and ready stocks of timber, but who was to say for sure what the Dornish had done since the end of the rebellion, what weapons they might have kept in secret? What ships they might have hidden away in remote places, or what plans they might make?  
  
For that uncertainty of their security, caution and alertness of the seas around them was a certainty of action, and one the crew did entirely of their own accord. But despite the air of concern and fear, Tyrion could not help but see the beauty of the seas around and that of the Dornish coast itself, all beneath the light of a sun that was retiring for the evening. He had never been so far south before, never, and the first week after they had left the Arbor for what would be one of the most important parts of their journey had been a time of surprises - the days were baking hot, incredibly so when the sun was at its highest point in the sky, and nothing in his wardrobe was thin enough to let the little breeze there was through to cool him down, so much so that most of the crew walked around barechested for most of the day, including _Esgred_ of all people, but that great heat became a chilling cold at night and the constant flux between one or the other made it impossible to become used to either, and only that bitter black mog his sister had sent from King's Landing to be their ratter was comfortable in it...and a brief glance to his left, where the cat was perched on the forecastle and contentedly licking its paws before knocking the remains of its meal, a half-eaten mouse barely three weeks old, into the water.  
  
"He's a clever one, isn't he?" Anguy asked, leaning on the ship's railing, glancing down to the waters below, his new shirt fastened around his waist like a belt. "He never goes for the big ones, only the babies."  
  
"Keeping the mother around means he always has more mice to eat," Tyrion answered.  
  
"He's the Gregor Clegane of cats," Anguy said with amusement. "Always in a bad mood and always going after the little ones first."  
  
"Best not to say that whilst Sandor is closeby," Tyrion warned quietly.  
  
"Why?" Anguy asked. "Is he and Gregor close?"  
  
Tyrion couldn't help but laugh, then, to the Marcherman's surprise.  
  
"The two are as close as Dorne is to the Wall," he said. "You've seen Sandor's burns, haven't you?"  
  
"Who hasn't?" Anguy asked. "He got those during the Sack, didn't he?"  
  
"Oh, you really don't know much about him, have you?"  
  
"He doesn't talk much, and I don't hear much about him either," Anguy shrugged.  
  
"The reason you don't hear much about him is because he doesn't want to be spoken about," Tyrion said dryly. "He doesn't care for glory or songs."  
  
"Just gold?"  
  
"Just _killing_ ," Tyrion corrected. "And there is no one he would want to kill more than his brother. He gave him those burns, held him down in a brazier till the flesh charred black."  
  
The archer stared back at him then.  
  
"Truly," Tyrion insisted. "Ask him yourself if you don't believe me."  
  
"I don't think Sandor would -"  
  
"Would what?" came the gruff voice of the Hound himself, Tyrion turning to see the Clegane towering a foot over the Marcherman and in all his armor, burying him beneath a dark shadow. "Spit it out."  
  
"I think I best get below decks," Anguy said quickly, striding across the deck and stopping only to glance at the half-naked Ironborn woman manning the ship's tiller and keeping the course straight and true, only to hurriedly continue on his way below when Esgred took notice and glared at him.  
  
"What did he want?" the Clegane asked, his voice as quiet as he ever lowered it, looking towards Dorne and ready for battle.  
  
"He was merely curious about you, is all," Tyrion answered. "It doesn't seem they hear much about you in the Marches."  
  
Sandor grumbled in answer, saying nothing and doing nothing more.  
  
"Why is it that you so rarely speak to anyone, even on so long a voyage?" Tyrion asked...  
  
...and when Sandor looked back at him with grey eyes as hard as iron, burnt flesh taut and hard with the strength of a clenched jaw and made all the darker by the contrast of the light on the unburnt side of his face, Tyrion thought that he might die then and there, crushed by the Clegane's brute strength or hurled overboard to drown.  
  
"My apologies, the heat -"  
  
"Damn the heat, and damn you, too," Sandor snapped, the Hound simmering with a barely contained anger. "What of it if I want to speak to no one?"  
  
"I meant no offense," Tyrion said carefully and quickly, "I merely meant that you have barely said a word this entire voyage, and not once since we left the Arbor. I was concerned. Nothing more."  
  
Sandor leaned in, then, the hideously disfigured man looking at him with a harsh gaze...and then he relented, rising back to his full height and looking towards the sea.  
  
"I have nothing to talk about," came the Hound's reply, quiet. "And no desire to."  
  
"Why?" Tyrion asked, damning himself for his curiosity. "Surely you must have something to talk about."  
  
"Like what?" Sandor answered. "A stupid jape? The heat? Westeros? What matter is any of it?"  
  
"A story, mayhaps," Tyrion reasoned. "To pass the time. This voyage still has many more weeks to go, and a few words won't hurt."  
  
"Once there was a dwarf on a ship and he was thrown overboard for talking too much," Sandor murmured quietly before sighing. "Damn you, dwarf. What is you want from me?"  
  
"A longer story, mayhaps?" Tyrion asked. "Or an explanation as to why you have been even angrier than you normally are since we left the Arbor, if such a thing was possible?"  
  
For a moment, there was silence, the Hound leaning on the railing. Minutes passed without another word, and Tyrion became tempted to walk back to his cabin and rest for the time being or write another word for the journal that had been provided by his father to log their voyage in detail, to account for all their purchases, struggles and victories.  
  
And then he spoke, his voice a whisper that Tyrion had never heard the Clegane speak before, everything about him weak and gentle.  
  
"It would be her nameday today."  
  
"Whose?" Tyrion asked. "You must have loved her, for her to trouble you so?"  
  
"What do you know of love?" the Clegane snapped, whatever softness that was in him a moment before completely gone. "All you ever do is whore and drink, and care about none other than yourself. Even your own family despises you, dwarf. You could lose them all and not shed a tear."  
  
"I know more than you might think," Tyrion answered deftly, anger filling him and making him bring forth words he would never speak, not even when drunk. "And damn you for thinking that I do not know what loss is! I have loved a woman and had her snatched away from me and told that everything I loved was a _**lie** _ as I saw her given to a hundred other men as she _sobbed_ and _cried_ for my help!"  
  
"...I..." Sandor said with a hesitant voice, his face covered in surprise and regret. "I am sorry. I did not know."  
  
"Few do," Tyrion sighed, leaning onto the railing as he spoke with a voice no louder than Sandor's own. "Her name was Tysha. She was my wife. I loved her, and all it did was hurt us both."  
  
When he said those words, it was though all the fury and all the anger in the towering Clegane was banished, if only for a time.  
  
"She was my sister," Sandor said at last, his voice solemn and sad as he admitted his greatest failing.. "Her name was Sansa. I loved her."  
  
"She must have been special," Tyrion spoke, making sure that no one else might hear.  
  
"No," Clegane said softly. "She wasn't. She was little more than plain looking, and her hands were like mine, too big for sewing needles. But she tried, she _always_ tried. She always wanted to be better, to be beautiful, to dance and sing like the girls in all the stories did. She made others want to be better, to be the best they could be. To try, like she did."  
  
"But Gregor knew that he could hurt me if he hurt her," Clegane whispered. "And now she is gone."  
  
Sandor turned to walk away, then, to head below decks once more, and Tyrion spoke. "Hound."  
  
Clegane turned back, and Tyrion plucked out his handkerchief from his doublet's inside pocket, a thin thing of red cloth embroidered with a golden lion in its centre and his family words below.  
  
"Here, you have...mist," Tyrion started, correcting himself before he could make a mistake. "On your burnt cheek."  
  
"Ah, bugger you, dwarf," Sandor murmured as he took the cloth and wiped down his burnt cheek, passing it back as soon as he was done. "Standing next to the water and making me get wet."  
  
"I am a Lannister," Tyrion said with a smile and a shrug of his shoulders. "It is my job to plot and make people suffer."  
  
The Hound laughed then, a loud and booming thing, walking towards the steps that led below decks and into what little shelter they had from the sun's fury, passing a confused Ser Davos on the way.  
  
"What was that about?" Davos asked with concern. "From what Anguy said, I expected to find you in the water."  
  
"Oh, nothing," Tyrion smiled, refusing to divulge the Hound's secrets. "Just a lively talk and nothing more."  
  
"Aye, well, if you're alive it couldn't have been too bad," Davos said understandingly, leaning on the railings as he faced the Lannister dwarf. "Have you made your decision, yet?"  
  
"On what?" Tyrion asked, looking to the distance to see a small barge fishing in the waters at the very mouth of a river, throwing their nets far.  
  
"On our course," Davos added. "Two choices. Do we go onto Volantis and then southwards past Valyria, keeping us within sight of the shore...though bringing us close to the Smoking Sea and the ruins of the Freehold, or straight on from Lys to Gogossos in a straight line. We can do it, we have the supplies we need and anything we don't we can get from the city, but it means sailing over open ocean. It'll be quicker, no doubt about it, and Summer Islanders make voyages of that length often, but it puts us at risk of storm."  
  
"But if we are lucky, we won't have to deal with anything like that," Tyrion said with a smile. "And if there is one thing we have had so far, it is luck."  
  
"Straight on, then?"  
  
"Straight on," Tyrion confirmed with a nod. "I want us to get to Gogossos as quickly as we can. Once we have it we can take as long as we might need to return to Lannisport. My father won't care, so long as we have the sword."  
  
"Then straight on it is," Davos nodded in understanding. "We'll need to take on more spares when we dock at Lys, though. Sails and timbers and the like. The last thing we need is a strong wind ripping our sails and leaving us marooned in the midst of the ocean."  
  
"But that would be better than being beached on the ruins of Valyria, at least," Tyrion replied before laughing to himself. "Why is it that everywhere we might go is full of monsters?"  
  
Ser Davos laughed. "At least Lys won't be so bad."  
  
"You're right," Tyrion smiled. "It only has slavers, pirates and sisterloving Valyrians."  
  
"Better than whatever creatures are in the jungles of Sothoryos or wandering around Valyria, at least," Davos reasoned. "You're a Lannister; you have enough gold to pay off a pirate or a slaver and they won't want to come after you anyway because they know what your father will do to them if he gets his hands on them."  
  
"Ah, the joys of being a Lannister," Tyrion smiled again. "We have a fortress with a mountain that has never fallen and is atop the greatest gold mine in all Seven Kingdoms, and we have a realm so defensible none could ever take it from us."  
  
"You're blessed," Davos said. "I can't imagine what I would do with the wealth you have."  
  
"We are generous with it too, always rewarding those who serve well."  
  
"Is that what happened to the Reynes?" Davos asked, Tyrion laughing as the Onion Knight continued. "But no, my loyalties are to Stannis. You'll have to find another onion knight."  
  
"Even if we were to give you a big pile of gold?"  
  
"Even if you were to give me a big pile of gold," Davos said with a smile as he started towards the aftcastle, where the two took their meals. "Now, I think it is almost dinner, my lord, and this heat makes me want a cup of Arbor gold."  
  
"Thank the Seven for that knight, whatever his name was," Tyrion said eagerly as he followed. "He paid his debts."  
  
"That he did, and he did it with good wine," Davos agreed as the two men entered the cool shade of their cabin, the table already set for the last and greatest meal of the day. Ser Davos took the flagon of Arbor gold that was sat squarely in in its midst, pouring out a cup to the both. "Here's to the _King Gerold._ "  
  
"May she win us another hundred bets," Tyrion said, raising his cup. "And see us to the south, of course."  
  
"If there was anything worth drinking to, that is it," Davos smiled.  
  
And the two men clanked their cups together in celebration of another day successfully conquered and a few dozen more miles travelled towards their southern destination, something worth celebrating if there ever was one.  
  


****  
**Weeks later, somewhere in the eastern Stepstones...**  


Davos' boots clattered on the deck as he walked towards the ship's aft with a sword at his hip and a helmet upon his head, watching carefully as the _King Gerold_ slowly sailed through the great archipelago of the Broken Arm of Dorne, the Stepstones, a pirate's forest full of secret strongholds and loot caches and shipyards, and what unease or anxiety there had been amongst the crew as they sailed past Dorne had been replaced entirely by quiet fear, with few words said in the _King Gerold_ 's holds and even fewer on the deck, every man afraid of being heard or spotted by the infamous, bloodthirsty corsairs that plagued every part of the Stepstones. Every man who knew how to fight was armed and armored, and Sandor Clegane kept them on the deck as a show of force, to show that they would not be easy prey...but even with that warning, they had made sure to douse any flames that could be seen from the distance, even Qyburn's reading lamp, not that it would make much difference in the growing brightness of the early morning.  
  
But still, every effort was being made.  
  
"How fast are we going?" spoke the Northern clansman, Artos, his hard face half hidden by nasal helm and coif, long axe in hand and hauberk over a wool padded body. "We are slower than yesterday."  
  
"Aye, we are," Davos answered grimly as he stood at the ship's rearmost section, pulling in the rope that measured the ship's speed. "We are managing two knots, mayhaps three."  
  
"Why?" came the clanner's voice, Artos having little experience with the sea or sailing.  
  
"The islands are blocking the winds, and there isn't much wind here anyway, not much that isn't against us anyway," Davos sighed. "These are waters made for galleys, exactly why pirates use them, and we are a sailer. Anywhere on the open sea and we would leave a galley far behind, but they can move free of the winds and we cannot."  
  
"And we have no wind," Artos said with an understanding nod.  
  
"Exactly so," Davos explained, wrapping the knotted rope around the aft rail. "If they find us here, it won't be to our liking."  
  
"How come?"  
  
"The smallest war galley carries twice our crew," came the voice of Esgred, the ironborn woman as armed and armored as any of the men, her axe fastened to her side and her great round shield leaning against the railing, looking out towards the horizon with an eyeglass. "Many of those will be galley slaves chained to their oars, but most of the rest will be fighters to keep the rest from revolting, so if we end up being boarded it will be two to one, maybe more, and the bigger the war galley gets the more men they have to bring over."  
  
"That is true, but most pirates are not the bloodthirsty madmen most make them out to be," Davos reasoned. "They will run if they take enough losses and few of them are bold enough to try and fight a member of the Lannister household guard in full plate."  
  
"True," Esgred agreed. "Our only problem is if we are hit by two pirate galleys at the same time. Even the best fighter would be overwhelmed then."  
  
"Like a bear against a pack of dogs," Artos said with quiet understanding. "A bear can kill any dog with ease, but the more and more dogs that are there the harder it becomes."  
  
"And the same thing counts for boarding," Davos explained. "We have some of the best fighters the Westerlands has, aye, some of the best that all of Westeros has even, but they can only fight so many men at once before they get overwhelmed and end up with a knife in the back. The same thing goes for ships too, as even the strongest ships on the sea can be sank by a dozen smaller -"  
  
"...hells," Esgred cursed with a quiet voice as she gazed towards the ship's aft, peering through the eyeglass before lowering it, fear on her face for the first time.  
  
"What do you see, Esgred?" Davos asked. "Is there something out there?"  
  
"A pirate war galley, " Esgred said, handing Davos the eyeglass so that he might see for himself. "It looks like the Silence, Euron Greyjoy's own war galley."  
  
Davos raised the glass to his right eye, covering his left with his palm and just as she had said, he saw a war galley of two decks and built for speed, trading the great fighting platforms of the forecastle of a normal warship for a smaller one in return for a sleeker body better able to cut through the ocean's waters, its sail a field of black cloth broken only by a great golden kraken and its hull the same dark red shade of crimson as freshly spilled blood...and it was travelling towards them at a furious pace, row after row of its countless oars closing the distance foot by foot and yard by yard, pushing the ship forward at a speed faster than the winds could propel the _King Gerold_ , but no war galley, not even that of the cruelest pirate, would force their crew to row at such a speed if there was a reason not to, and that meant only one thing.  
  
"He's coming straight for us," Davos said quietly before stepping towards the railing and shouting his commands. "Make ready for battle, boys! Man the scorpions!"  
  
Immediately the door to the cabin he shared with Tyrion Lannister snapped open, and the dwarf, lightly armored in a small mail hauberk, hurried onto the deck and up the stairs to the aftcastle as quickly as his little legs could carry him. "Battle? Can we not outrun whoever it is?"  
  
"Not in this weather," Davos said quickly before turning towards Esgred, the only one amongst the crew who seemed to know who the pirate ship was. "What do you known of the Silence and Euron Greyjoy?"  
  
"Too much," Esgred said grimly, raising her shield and pressing it against the rails as she slid her left arm into the straps and fastened them tight. "If he takes the ship, he'll kill the lot of us. If we're lucky."  
  
"...and if we aren't?" Tyrion asked with a clear concern.  
  
"He'll cut our tongues out and sell the lot of us," Esgred answered flatly, hiding her black hair beneath a thick steel helm made in the Ironborn fashion, a grey thing with a length of chain that reached down to her shoulders and with a set of cheek guards and a noseguard that joined together with thick pieces of hard steel over the cheekbones, encircling the eyes with metal and masking all signs of her womanhood. "The unlucky ones will be tortured for fun, or drowned or burnt or anything else he might think of doing. Euron is mad and has always _been_ mad, no one knows what he might plan for us if we fall into his hands."  
  
"And he'll do it if we surrender?"  
  
"He'll do worse _because_ we surrendered."  
  
"And if we can't outrun him...then we will have to fight," Davos said at last, glancing towards the distant ship for a moment before turning his attentions to the man at the tiller. "Bring us about, tillerman."  
  
"...you don't mean to try and fight, do you?" Tyrion asked with stunned surprise.  
  
"We'll have better wind," Esgred said swiftly. "Better to try and fight him than get rode down whilst trying to flee."  
  
"Aye," Davos answered. "Might be that we can loop around him and flee that way, but more likely than not we will have to try and make a stand."  
  
"Well...you are the two with the experience," Tyrion submitted. "You have command. If we are to fight, we fight."  
  
"Then I say that we need to be aggressive," Esgred said. "It's easy for a man to be brave when he is chasing down a fleeing merchantmen, less so when it is willing to fight back. Euron is no fool. He'll withdraw if he thinks the enemy is too strong."  
  
"Then I say that we stay at full sail and let what little wind we can catch push us towards them," Davos said quickly. "If we go towards them, they might think we're a pirate hunter, and more heavily armed than they thought."  
  
"Now you're starting to think like an Ironborn captain," Esgred laughed beneath her armor as the ship swept around on its turn towards the Silence, little by little. "If we fire our scorpions as we pass, we might well make him think he has found a harder foe than he thought."  
  
"Agreed," Davos nodded. "But they won't do much damage against a ship that size."  
  
"They don't need to," Tyrion said. "The thought that we have more weapons should be enough."  
  
"I hope so," Davos murmured quietly. "We don't stand much of a chance in a straight fight should they get too close."  
  
The three looked at one another then grimly, knowing that this was the one and only chance that they had to survive, to see their way to Gogossos and back to home in one piece, and that to try and run would simply delay the inevitable, perhaps even make things worse should the weather turn against them even more than it already was...but like this, by turning against them now, they had a chance to fight the enemy by their own terms rather than on his, and even Davos knew that was a great advantage, the very same advantage that had made Lord Stannis's victory over the Ironborn at Fair Isle so shattering, denying the Ironborn longships their famous agility and sailing ability by trapping them between land on their east and west and between ships on the north and south, a hammer and an anvil on which to smash the ironmen, and it had worked. But for now, they could only prepare for battle, and everywhere Davos looked the men were readying themselves; Anguy stumbled up the stairs with a small barrel of what was surely a hundred arrows, placing it down on the most fortified part of the aft castle before testing the string of his longbow with a slight tug and sliding on a sort of leathery fingerguard onto his right hand, something that Davos had only seen the very best archers use, and on the main deck men-at-arms hurried into place with hand cranked crossbows, a weapon that any man could use after just a few days of training and with which any household guardsmen of the Westerlands would be expected to be more than familiar, bringing a crateful of quarrels onto the deck with them, and the Northman hurried down below decks and emerged again with a simple hunting bow and a quiver at his hip, unfazed by the weight of carrying so many weapons. Even Bronn had a shortbow from the ship's well stocked armory, a powerful little thing and a quiver full of deadly steel broadheads, leaving only Sandor Clegane without a weapon to throw, but with a full scorpion to command. More shields were brought up from below decks, to further barricade the sides of the ship from fire, and a fearful crewman brought up a pair, a small round thing for Tyrion and a full heater shield for Davos, its oaken surface painted with the Lannister crest rather than his own.  
  
He took it, fastening it upon his arm as best and as quickly as he could, and as he did he heard the first sounds of battle, just as he had at Fair Isle - the thwash of water splashing against the hull of a charging war galley, only this time without the pounding rhythm of the war drums, the Silence coming towards them without a noise but for the movement of the ocean, closer, closer, close enough that he could see men upon the deck, a mix of men from all across the known world, Ironmen and Summer Islanders and Westerosi and Dornishmen and every other kind of man that he knew of, even the hairy Ibbenese, all ready for battle and all snarling with tongueless mouths and tattooed bodies, looking more like a horde of demons out of the deepest and darkest part of the Seven Hells than a crew of sailors.  
  
"Fire!" shouted the Clegane, and in an instant came the loud _thwang_ of the ship's scorpions, their bolts whistling through the air, one landing with a splash a few feet from the Silence's starboard side, the other striking on the bow, shattering on impact.  
  
"I'll kill any man who misses at this range!" Sandor shouted as the men hurried to reload, the tillermen pushing the ship's turn as tight as he could, bringing them alongside in a maneuver that would give them a clear view of the Silence's middle, a chance to strike. "Ready!"  
  
"And now things get bloody," Esgred said flatly, Anguy quickly notching an arrow with deft, perfect movements. "Best of luck, onion knight."  
  
"Aye," Davos said. "You too."  
  
Then the two ships passed one another by, separated by four hundred feet of clear blue water, and Davos dropped to a knee and huddled behind his shield as the hells came to the surface, the scorpions that were mounted upon the Silence's middle returning a volley with the same thwang as the _King Gerold's_ own, and a second later he heard a split second's scream from his side and looked to see the tillerman tumbling over the railing, a scorpion bolt through his middle, and a second later came the volleying twangs of an exchange of archer and crossbow fire, arrows thumping all around as they struck the deck and buried themselves in the ship's wooden hull and the shrill sound of the dying cries of men who had no tongues.  
  
In all this chaos, in all this bloodshed, Davos did the only thing that he could think to do. He prayed.  
  
"Warrior above, grant strength to our arms and to our shields," he uttered as quickly as he could with a hushed voice, feeling the kick against his arm of an arrow striking his shield as he recited the words he had heard the ship's septon say at Fair Isle, all those years before. "Make our bows strike true and hard and put courage in our hearts so that we might carry the -."  
  
"Shut your damned mouth and fight already!" Esgred shouted furiously as she picked up her axe and threw it, Davos emerging an inch from the cover of his shield to see the weapon careen through the air and strike a bulky Summer Islander in the midst of his face, the tall warrior crumpling to the Silence's bloody deck as his goldenheart bow fell into the waters of the Narrow Sea, bobbing in the waves. "Someone needs to steer this damned ship before they throw a grapnel!"  
  
"Aye!" Davos said loudly over the noise of battle, scrambling with a half crouched run towards the tiller, never once lowering the shield for even an instant as he grabbed hold of the thick wooden lever with a mailed hand and pushed as hard as he could to the left, the ship swerving towards the right almost instantly.  
  
He looked round, searching for any sign of the little Lannister whose father they all served, only to see Anguy rising and falling to and from the arrows in a cycle of deadly fire, aiming but for a second each time and sending another man plummeting into the waters or down onto the Silence's crimson deck, trembling and clutching at the broadhead arrows buried in their bodies. For all the chaos and fury that had raged just a few moments before, for all the slaughter that had waned for but a moment as the length of the _King Gerold_ 's body passed behind the Silence's aft and out of view of most of their crew but for a dozen men on the war galley's squat aft castle, trading arrows with the Lannister men-at-arms in a volley that saw more of them falling than not, the _King Gerold_ 's men-at-arms were almost unscathed; their plate armor, the best that the smiths of Lannisport could forge, was dinged with dents and the bare color of the metal beneath showed through long scrape marks in the scarlet paint, but it had weathered the fight and protected the men well, with only three men having had their armor pierced by their opponents bows and only one of them having been wounded by it and forced to retreat below decks for the maester's tending, the other two plucking the arrows out of the thick arming gambesons beneath and throwing them to the deck, whilst the quality of their skill at shooting and their the strong construction of their weaponry had proven its worth, triumphing over the quantity of the Silence's fire, and it felt that almost every time the men of the pirate war galley fired a volley of five arrows, the crew of the _King Gerold_ replied with three and killed one.  
  
And for a moment, Davos smiled. He had been a smuggler first and a fighter second, that was true, but he knew when a fight was more equal than not and when it was threatening to fall onto their side, and he could tell that this was a battle that they might well win.  
  
"We should come about," Davos said quickly to Esgred, the Ironborn woman looking at him for a moment before drawing her sword and cutting off the arrows buried in her round shield. "If we can damage her sails, than they won't have a chance to catch us, not when the oarsmen are tired after rowing all that way."  
  
"Then do it," Tyrion said, revealing himself safely in the wooden corner of the aft castle's wooden fortifications, sat squarely on the ground to make himself so low that he couldn't be hit by pirate arrows.  
  
"Focus on their sails if you can!" Davos shouted to Sandor as the second scorpion fired another bolt that lodged in the Silence's hull, utterly ineffective. "They're easier to damage than the hull!"  
  
"I haven't seen their captain," Anguy said quickly, raising another arrow as he picked off one of the few men who could fit on the Silence's aft castle, a Dornishman who collapsed onto their railings with an arrow in the eye, limp, bending over to take up another arrow as he pulled back the strong on the leather tab that covered his right hand. "I wanted to shoot him down."  
  
"He's not stupid enough to step out his cabin when he's losing so many men to arrow fire," Esgred said quickly as the Marcherman let go of the string with a _twang_ and sent another man screaming into the hells. "No one is."  
  
"Shame," Anguy sighed, Davos looking over to see that the archers on the aft castle had fled rather than risk certain death by their fire. "The rest aren't fighting anymore. Too smart."  
  
There was the thwang of another scorpion bolt, this one smashing through the shutters of the captain's cabin, placed beneath the aft castle just as it was on the King Gerold, and the sail ship circled around again, closer than before, some two hundred feet apart rather than four hundred, and that was closer than close range, melee distance for the archer of any warship...  
  
...and when the King Gerold looped around again, it showed. Arrows rained down onto the Lannister ship as seemingly ever man aboard, ripping holes through the sails and striking the deck and lodging in it, hammering into shields and armored men and shooting down a few brave sailors who had taken up arms to help protect their ship and home from attack, one plummeting from the top of the mast with a loud wail and striking the ground with the sickening crunch of shattering bones, twitching for a moment before falling still and silent, but for every wound that was taken five men were killed on the Silence, and for every man that was lost another twenty went with him. Then Davos saw it, a grappling hook, careening through the air, falling a few feet short of the ship as a second clanked onto the forecastle and clanked onto the top most part of the railings, only for Sandor Clegane to quickly slash the rope through with a single strike of his blade and send it tumbling back into the sea.  
  
"We cannot take much of this," he shouted, cowering behind his shield for protection and feeling and hearing the strike of another arrow against its surface, punching deep into its surface with a horrid thunk. "We need to stop them on the next pass!"  
  
"I have an idea!" Tyrion shouted, rushing down the steps and onto the main deck, one of the man-at-arms falling back with his shield to protect the dwarf from harm as he scrambled below decks. "Keep firing!"  
  
Davos swung back to the tiller, grabbing hold for another pass, then an arrow was fired and his shoulder exploded with a deep and stinging pain and the stench of blood flowed even stronger thorugh the air than it had before, and he knew in an instant and without looking that he had been hit, but he forced himself through it, forwards, onwards to the tiller, leaning on it with all of his strength and all of his bodyweight to force the rudder as far to the left side as it could it go, and the ship responded by turning towards the starboard side, riding the waves and with what little wind there was as it looped around the Silence once more in a deadly trade of arrows and quarrels, and this time one of the men-at-arms crashed to the ground and rolled off the deck with an arrow through the visor, dragged beneath by the weight of his steel. They were being whittled down, little by little and arrow by arrow, their constant movements delaying what felt to be inevitable, whilst the Silence's mad crew seemingly ignored their dead and pushed onwards, more men coming from below decks to replace those lost above and brought down by Lannister bows, and the massive holds of the pirate war galley surely held far more arrows and bolts than those of the _King Gerold_ , as evidenced by the brigands shooting the moment the arrow was notched and without even bothering to aim whatsoever, the weight of fire a thousand times more important than its accuracy, but by the King Gerold's turn the crew got the briefest reprieve they could, out of the field of view of the main bulk of the Silence's own men, a chance to breathe and reload. On the deck appeared Tyrion again, running towards the forecastle and the Clegane with a hastily armored sailor behind, carrying a thick wooden cask in his hands whilst the dwarf ran with a brightly burning torch and a sheet of deep red sailcloth, the two men using the towering Hound, his shield and the wooden battlements for cover as they tore the lid from the top of the cask and ripped the cloth into rags and submerged them in the liquid and raised them out again dripping with...  
  
...lamp oil?  
  
"Put this on the bolts!" the Lannister shouted to the Clegane, the Hound staring at the flame closeby. "It is our best chance to do some damage!"  
  
"Bugger you, dwarf! Do it yourself!" the Hound snarled, refusing to touch anything that the flame might take to or the torch.  
  
"If we don't, we all die!" Tyrion snapped in reply, a rare furor in his voice.  
  
In response, the Hound growled wordlessly, throwing his sword onto the scorpion as he picked the bolt up and held it down for the dwarf to reach, Tyrion wrapping the barbed tip in oily cloth, hands slick and shining with olive oil, and then the scorpion bolt was placed on the weapon once more and its tip lit by torch, the cloth setting ablaze instantly and burning furiously.  
  
"Fire!" the Clegane shouted, stepping away from the blaze, and with a strike of a hammer to release the mechanism the burning bolt screamed through the air, a trail of black smoke, right as the King Gerold came around to the galley's side once more...  
  
...and by the grace of the Seven who were One, by the will of the Warrior, his eyes saw a miracle as the bolt went through an opening in the ship's side, an opening made for an oar...and a heartbeat later, he heard the screams of men unable to escape from their chained oars as the fire took root in the wooden warship's heart, thick plumes of black smoke pouring out through the oar-holes. Men rushed from the fighting deck of the Silence to help their comrades below, only to be shot down as they did and only for another burning bolt to be sent forth, this time missing the ship completely and striking the waters past, burning out with a hiss of steam. Panic started to spread across the Silence's deck, some men leaping overboard and trying to swim towards the nearest island, some being swept under by the currents, but from the captain's cabin of the silence emerged a man in black armor and with a thick cloak of black and gold fastened by kraken shaped clasps, with a great round shield like that of Esgred's own and a sword that gleamed in the air from its sharpness: Euron Greyjoy himself.  
  
"It seems I need a new ship," the Greyjoy shouted with a laughing voice, raising his shield to block Anguy's arrows. "A good thing yours is so close!"  
  
"If you worship the Drowned God, then we'll send you to him," the Northman shouted back.  
  
The answer came in the form of a boarding grapnel. Artos threw it overboard, but a dozen more followed a second later, and then a dozen more after that, and the decks groaned and the sails fluttered as the Silence's crew tugged and pulled, pulling the King Gerold towards the larger galley for boarding.  
  
"Cut those bloody ropes!" Sandor shouted, but whilst much of the Silence's crew brought the two ships together, the remainder shot their arrows against a ship that could not escape, keeping the men busy with simply protecting themselves from the wooden rain, unable to do as the Hound commanded...  
  
...and to the Seaworth's horror, he heard the familiar sound of two hulls clattering together, and the sound of a ramp falling onto the deck, then another, then another.  
  
"Charge, you cowards!" shouted Sandor as he rushed forward with steel drawn, hacking down the first man to come onto the King Gerold's deck.  
  
"For the _**Rock!**_ " came the battle cry of the Lannister men, charging onto the Silence and turning the attacker into the defender, the boarder into the boarded. "For Lord **Tywin!** "  
  
"Seven hells," Davos murmured, clutching at the throbbing wound in his arm, Esgred as stunned by the pure aggression as he. "They're brave."  
  
"They are," Esgred agreed.  
  
Then she charged down the steps and stormed the Silence alongside all the others, one of the men-at-arms, Tommen his name if Davos could remember right, trying to fight Euron in single combat only to be sent tumbling towards the edge of the ship's railing with a shove of his shield, kept from falling off only by the Ironborn woman pushing him forward as she came aboard, and Sandor Clegane met the Greyjoy man against man, fighting with such unrelenting aggression that even the notorious pirate was seemingly taken back by his fury for a moment before the air filled with the clanging of steel on steel, the two black armored warriors locked in single combat. But whilst they busied themselves with man against man, Davos looked to the others, and saw a massacre before his eyes, for even the most bloodthirsty and battle hardened pirate was no match for Casterly Rock's finest swords, men covered from head to heel in plate and trained by veteran warriors, and in the bloody fighting that was on the Silence's deck, each and every one of them was the equal to a knight, cutting their way through the mobs of more lightly armed and armored pirate-sailors with little difficulty, with only the Greyjoy's own soldiers, his own pirates in armor, posing any real difficulty...and more often than not, the sellsword Bronn dealt with those, moving through the melee with the agility of a shadowcat and stabbing men in their knees and backs or slitting throats from behind in a deadly combination with the Northern clansman Artos, whose great bulk made him a large target easy for one to become too focused on, or they were shot down by Anguy, having not moved an inch from the King Gerold's aftcastle and having emptied half the barrel he brought up with him...and all that meant that the Lannister men were going through their opposition like a scythe going through wheat, the bodies of tongueless men piling up on the deck like fallen leaves.  
  
"You're a burnt man, Hound," came Euron's voice as the Greyjoy pressed the attack, beating the Clegane back across the deck, towards the railing, barely heard on the King Gerold. "You fear flames, even if you'll be going to a place full of them, and I will be the one to send you there."  
  
Then the Greyjoy laughed, smashing his sword off of a barely burning oil lamp outside the door of his own cabin, the oil coating the blade and bursting into flames and making Sandor retreat backwards more and more with every strike, till the Clegane had nowhere else to run, his back pressed against the railings, and Euron raised his blade for a killing blow, bringing it down only for Sandor to meet it with his own steel in a final stand, brilliant orange flames caressing the black steel of his hounskull visor.  
  
"Bronn! " Davos shouted as loud as he could, leaning against the railing to rest his wounded arm, the sellsword's attention snapping to him and the Seaworth looking towards the straining Clegane, and Bronn nodded quickly in understand and sidestepped his way through the melee, through the last of the Silence's crew.  
  
And when he reached Euron, he did what he had done to every other of the men he had made his way behind, stabbing his left and right heels and making the armored warrior crumble to his knees with an awful cry of pain and a thump, and Sandor roared then, like an animal in its fury, and slammed an armored fist of utter hatred into the Greyjoy's helm with a bang of a hammer striking an anvil, a blow that sent him reeling onto the deck, crawling to escape as an armored boot came down on his back, Clegane stepping over and bringing his sword around for the finishing blow...and with the battle so clearly decided, with victory so near, the last of the pirates began to flee, leaping overboards to take their chances with the waters rather than to risk certain death by Lannister steel, and a cheer went up as the last bodies fell against the deck, the cry of triumphant men raising their swords high echoing through the air and across the seas, and Davos descended the steps of the aft castle with a smile, making his way to the ramp, Tyrion crossing over to the other ship, stopping Sandor from finishing the wounded Greyjoy with an open hand.  
  
"Leave him a moment," Tyrion said quickly as he moved over to the wounded Greyjoy, crouching down and rolling him onto his front. "If anyone might know where other pirates are, he -  
  
"Euron doesn't reave with others," Esgred said harshly, looking down on him with angry eyes. "He does it by himself. He's only ever cared about himself."  
  
"Why...is that my sweet little niece that I hear behind that helm?" Euron laughed, pushing himself up against the wall. "You wouldn't let your uncle die, would you?"  
  
"You're no uncle of mine," she snapped.  
  
"Oh, but I think you are," Euron said, smiling warmly. "Asha Greyjoy, daughter of my brother Balon."  
  
All eyes turned towards Esgred, then, everyone's, even those of Sandor and all the men who had fought at her side.  
  
"What? Do you mean these Lannister men don't know?" Euron said with a loud laugh, taking off his helm and throwing it overboard, revealing a handsome face with dark hair and dark blue eyes and an eyepatch over his left eye. "Go on, make her take off that helmet of hers. We've got the family looks, after all."  
  
Esgred growled, then, angry...and she took off her helm, and the resemblance between the two was clear. Black hair, blue eyes, a hard but pretty face, even her movements carried the language of a Greyjoy now that Davos thought to see them. There was no doubt about it, now. She was not Esgred, not some common lowborn Ironborn warrior woman, she was Asha Greyjoy, daughter of the Lord Reaper of Pyke himself and as high of birth as Tyrion Lannister.  
  
"How does it feel to know that you're all fighting alongside the daughter of the man who burnt your fleet?"  
  
"That was your plan, Euron," Asha snapped angrily. "And all it brought the isles was fire and death."  
  
"Actually, you would find that it was your father's plan. He simply asked me to find the best way to do it, and what is a younger brother to do but do as his elder commanded?" Euron said with a smile.  
  
"You've never obeyed a man other than yourself and your own damned desires.  
  
"Oh, but I've obeyed many men; your grandfather, your father, your uncle Victarion, the king. And you are quite right, everything we did then brought fire and death, and I got rather tired of that, so I decided to strike out on my own for a change, sweetling," Euron said, his words obviously crafted to inflame his niece's temper. "Still, I hadn't expected you to come hunting for me. What did you promise them to get such a ship and such good swords, Asha? Did you bend over for the old lion?"  
  
There was a crack of a mailed fist striking flesh, and Euron spat out blood, thick and red.  
  
"How nice of you to speak to the only one who can spare you the sword," Asha said with a voice dripping with sarcasm, flexing her fingers. "I hadn't planned on fighting you during this voyage, but Victarion will be happy to know I did."  
  
"Then if I am to die, what trouble is there in telling me what you are doing?" Euron reasoned, looking towards the dwarf. "You're Tyrion Lannister. You know as well as I that my skills could be of some assistance. More men owe me favors than you have had hot meals. Or whores."  
  
Asha raised her axe to strike the killing blow, but Tyrion stepped forward, and she stayed her hand.  
  
"What do you know about the south?"  
  
"Westeros?" Euron asked. "Or further south...? Dorne...? The Summer Islands...?"  
  
Then the Greyjoy smiled.  
  
"No, you want Sothoryos..." Euron laughed. "You are either incredibly brave or mad. But might be that I do know a bit about Sothoryos."  
  
"How?" Asha demanded. "How could you possibly know a thing about Sothoryos?"  
  
"Because I have _been_ there, niece," Euron said, taking a softer tone towards his niece than he had before, trying to find a softer side of her. "Take a look in my cabin if you do not believe me. Left table. You'll find a little cage, and inside my very own dragon."  
  
"A...dragon?" Tyrion asked with surprise. "Dragons have been dead for centuries."  
  
"Not everywhere, and not their kin," Euron answered, smiling. "Go on."  
  
And so Tyrion went. The dwarf opened the cabin's door, stepped into a place that Davos could not see, and emerged with a small iron cage...  
  
...and inside was a dragon, a tiny beast no bigger than a hawk, earthy brown in color and with a scaled belly as dark as good soil. It hissed at the movement, angry at the sudden disturbance of its rest, wings flapping against the iron, and then it stopped, looking around curiously in the daylight. Euron took the cage from the dwarf, flicked open the door and reached in, the small reptile leaping onto his wrist as he pulled it out, the Ironborn raider showing the creature to them all freely, the animal clearly scared of being close to the Greyjoy and yet even more afraid of moving away.  
  
"...is this not proof enough?" the blue lipped Greyjoy asked, smiling. "A brown bellied wyvern, from Wyvern Point and nowhere else in the world. I thought to collect a few to sell to the Volantenes, for they do love them as pets, but I only managed to catch the one. Could be that I could guide you there, too. For a price."  
  
"A price?" Tyrion asked. "You are the one surrounded by Lannister swords."  
  
"True, but I would be of little use to you with my heels slashed...but a maester, which you surely have on your ship, could tend to that good enough," Euron said. "And mayhaps to drop me off in port on your way back."  
  
Tyrion seemed to consider it, then, and turned towards Asha. "Why was Euron banished from the islands?"  
  
"Banished?" Euron said quickly, clearly caught by surprise by the dwarf's words. "That never -"  
  
"He raped my uncle Victarion's wife," Asha said flatly. "He is a cruel manipulator, and would play men against one another so that they might be weak enough for him to best on his own. Mayhaps he even killed his own father for not fighting in the king's rebellion, too."  
  
"That's a lie, and you know it," Euron said quickly. "I was forced out because my plan to best the Westerlands failed, even if I told them all that it would never work."  
  
Tyrion reached out with an open palm...and the tiny wyvern leapt onto his hand, happily away from the wounded Greyjoy. "And yet you are here, with a ship full of tongueless men, and would have slaughtered us all if we hadn't won. Even if she is Asha and not Esgred, she has not lied to me once on this journey."  
  
"She lied to you about who she was!" Euron shouted. "Everything you knew about her -"  
  
"Was true," Tyrion said. "She hid her name and her birth, but everything she said was true. Mayhaps we wouldn't have even won this battle without her aid."  
  
Then the dwarf walked into the captain's cabin.  
  
"Do whatever you will with him."  
  
"Oh, gladly," Asha smiled. "But first...I need to get something as proof."  
  
"Asha, niece," Euron said softly as Asha walked towards him. "You wouldn't hurt your uncle, would you? Remember how I threw you in the air when you were little? We've never been enemies -"  
  
"If this was the otherway around, I could be a pregnant woman and you would still hack me down and laugh all the while," Asha said flatly. "If Victarion was here, he would give you what you deserve."  
  
She flipped his eyepatch up, then, revealing a black gemstone in the place of the missing eye, and Asha plucked it out, tossing it upwards in the air before catching it with an open palm, glancing for a moment at the onyx gemstone before closing her hand around it tight.  
  
"We've never been enemies," she said softly. "So I'll spare you. A good captain goes down with his ship, and this ship will sink when the fire burns through the hull, and with crippled legs and armor, you'll drown."  
  
"Asha, please -"  
  
"At least have the dignity to die like a Greyjoy, _uncle,_ " Asha spat harshly, before marching back onto the King Gerold, a weight seemingly off her shoulders as she went below decks...and after a moment, Sandor went as well, laughing at the crippled Euron as he did, and all but a few of the men-at-arms followed.  
  
"Davos! Over here!" shouted Tyrion. "I found something."  
  
"On my way," Davos answered, clutching at the arrow as he did, walking over the ramp and onto the blood stained decks of the Silence, past a grimly silent Euron and into the pirate captain's cabin...  
  
...a place more lavishly decorated than that of the one on the King Gerold, filled with the trophies of an adventure around the known world - Davos could not place all of the items he saw there, all of the different relics and figures, but he saw things from all around Westeros and beyond; a powerful crossbow that was a masterpiece of Myrish engineering, swords of Tyroshi steel, clothes made from Lorathi cloth and Naathi silk, a bow of the Summer Islander fashion carved from goldenheart, the deadly thin blades of a Braavosi water dancer, a shaggy Ibbenese shield...and what was a thousand religious relics, all from gods that Davos could not recognize but that of the Faith, a small seven sided glass prism on a necklace of beads, placed far from the light so that it might not make the rainbow of light that was the true symbol of the Faith.  
  
He reached out with his good arm and a hand dirtied with blood, taking it, and slipped it into a pocket before finally coming over to the dwarf, Tyrion stood before a table covered in maps of lands that Davos knew and some that he did not, besides which was a chunky wooden box in the corner and beneath which was a barred chest.  
  
"Do you think these might be of any use, Ser Davos?" Tyrion asked with the wyvern perched on his shoulder, looking towards Ser Davos with eyes that went wide as he saw the arrow stuck in his arm. "You're wounded."  
  
"It is not so bad as it looks," Davos answered. "But I'll see the maester when I can."  
  
"See the maester when we get back on the ship, and no later," the dwarf said, looking back to the maps, the wyvern following his eyes. "I won't have my captain dying from a wound gone bad."  
  
"Of course, my lord," Davos said, adding the title as a courtesy that the dwarf would rarely receive. "These maps could be useful. If he has been to Sothoryos, then he might have marked off reefs and other such things we will need to avoid."  
  
"If?" Tyrion asked with a mild surprise. "You see the wyvern on my shoulder."  
  
"Look at the rest of the room," Davos reasoned. "It might be that he looted the wyvern from any of the other ships he raided before trying to do the same to us."  
  
"Certainly a possibility," Tyrion nodded. "Tommen!"  
  
"My lord?" answered one of the Lannister red cloaks, stood in the doorway.  
  
"Take these maps back to the ship," Tyrion said, and instantly the man-at-arms obeyed, taking the maps under his arm and marching back to the King Gerold, whilst Tyrion turned his attentions to the rest of the room. "...if there is gold here, we might be able to make good use of it."  
  
"The chest beneath the table is like ours, if there was anywhere that he might keep gold, it would be there," Davos said, tapping his boot against the reinforced chest.  
  
"And yet there doesn't seem to be a key," Tyrion sighed.  
  
"No key, aye, but we have Artos."  
  
Tyrion looked at him for a moment...and then he smiled.  
  
"Artos! We have need of your axe!"  
  
"Eh?" the tall clansman asked as he stepped inside the door. "Is this what your cabin is like?"  
  
"No, thankfully," the dwarf said. "Would you mind opening this chest for us?"  
  
The clansman walked past the two, pulling the chest out from beneath the table before trying to push the lid open...and without a moment's hesitation, he took the smaller hatchet from his belt and started hacking away at the lid, smashing his way through till there was an opening big enough for Tyrion's fist to go through.  
  
And just as expected, Tyrion reached through and pulled out a handful of gold dragons.  
  
"Spoils for the men, I think, and some to replace what we have spent," Tyrion said, smiling. "I will need you to take it back to the ship in a moment, but first the other one too."  
  
The clansmen walked over to the box on the table, trying to push the lid open only for the lock to groan in answer, and like before, the clansmen used his axe, striking the locking mechanisms sides once, then twice, then thrice, then for a forth time, then he simply pulled the lock out and flipped the lid...and inside, there was a -  
  
"It's a stone," the clansmen said flatly with his thickly accented and deep voice.  
  
"No," Tyrion said with a stunned silence as he and Davos closed in. "Take the chest back to the ship."  
  
  
"Alright," the clansmen said in understanding, dragging the chest across the floor by the hole, its bars whining loudly as they grated across the floor.  
  
"Is that a...?" Davos asked with amazement, reaching out to touch the cool surface of the large round ovoid, feeling the tiny imperfections in the scales of blue and green, each glittering in the light that came through the pierced shutters as though it was encrusted with a thousand tiny emeralds and sapphires.  
  
"It is," Tyrion said quietly. "My father will want that near as much as the sword. Bring it, and tell no one."  
  
"I won't," Davos said quietly, pressing the lid shut again and carefully picking it up, the dragon egg much lighter than he had thought it might weigh, not a solid stone all the way through, and he walked out with it as though it were nothing more than a wooden case meant to protect the captain's journal, hiding it from Euron as he marched back onto the King Gerold with Tyrion not far behind, and only once he set it down on the table of their shared cabin did he let it out of his sight and head below decks to the former maester, hearing the snapping sounds of cutting ropes and feeling the King Gerold getting underway again...  
  
...and as Qyburn dealt with the wound, he wondered whether or not he would need to ask Tyrion to invite the Greyjoy woman to their next dinner, since he was certain that they would have much to talk about.  
  


****  
**End of Part 2!**  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! :D This part was a lot of fun to write, that's for sure, and covered quite a few important things...like the battle at the end of the part that saw the death of none other than Euron Greyjoy, going down with his ship in true Ironborn fashion - even if he had not been so eager about it :p - and the reveal that what some few guessed at was true - the King Gerold has Asha Greyjoy herself amongst its crew!
> 
> I'd write a longer summary, but it's a bit late now, so I best be getting to bed. Watch this space though, since there'll probably be one added on! :D


	3. From the Stepstones to Lys

****  
 **Later that evening...**

Tyrion smiled as he felt the familiar pulse of the King Gerold riding the waves beneath her hull, the wind fluttering in their proud sails as the scarlet light of the setting sun shone through the cloth, flooding the air with the shade of Lannister red as the men sang and ate and drank, drunk on the sweet wine of victory. Against the odds the King Gerold had not only managed to avoid defeat at the hands of a foe with superior numbers and who had the advantage of such speed as to decide how the battle was to be fought, but had defeated them and left the Silence a burning wreck, its captain surely going to the depths with it. It was a  _victory_ , and though they had taken losses, friends who had been buried with the greatest honors they could give them so far away from home, everyone knew that their victory had surely gone as well as it could.  
  
" _Now the rains weep o'er his hull_ ," sang the men-at-arms as he descended down the steps from the forecastle. " _And not a soul to hear."_  
  
There was a roar of laughter, then, and he grinned as he strode across the deck, the men raising their cups to him as he passed, looking to him not as their lord or captain, but as the who gave them victory. He had never been in battle before their duel against the Silence, never even dreamed of the chance of winning glory for himself, and yet now...now he knew why their king loved it so. It was his idea that had won them the day by setting the Silence's lower decks ablaze, and they knew it, and their gratitude and respect made him feel as tall and strong as his brother Jaime. It was a sight and feeling sweeter than any wine, and something that had made their triumph all the greater, and even that demonic black cat his sister had sent them seemed to be in a good mood for a change, happily licking its paws, enough that Anguy dared to pet it only to snatch his hand back when it hissed and returned to its cleaning, the earthy wyvern watching with concern from the railings above, the men-at-arms laughing at their friend's reaction.  
  
"Put your hand near that cat again and you'll lose it," laughed Tommen as he leaned against the railing, cup in hand and visor raised to reveal a handsome face marked by sandy blonde stubble, "I saw that cat in King's Landing, and it's evil."  
  
"You served in the capital?" Tyrion stopped as he looked towards the man-at-arms.  
  
"Aye, but not for long, though" came the answer. "I was part of the household guard there before the Greyjoy Rebellion before I went west with your brother during the war."  
  
"You must have done well to have made it to my father's guard," Tyrion said, smiling.  
  
"Not good enough to escape that cat," Anguy said to the amusement of all as the black tom walked towards him and drove the master archer away without so much as a hiss. "Where the hell did she find that thing?"  
  
"My sweet sister sent it from King's Landing," Tyrion said as the tom looked towards the wyvern with hungry eyes, only for the tiny dragon to swoop across from the aft castle to the fore, staying well away from its claws and jaws and making the black cat look elsewhere for an easier meal. "I'm sure King Aerys kept it around as a kindred spirit. Mayhaps to torture people."  
  
"From what I hear, it used to be a pet for one of the royals," Tommen answered. "Before the Sack, anyhow."  
  
"Didn't the princess have a kitten at Harrenhal?" Tyrion asked, thinking.  
  
"Maybe its the same one?" Anguy suggested. "Maybe it still remembers her getting killed by Gregor -"  
  
"Seven hells," growled the Clegane as he came onto the deck. "It's a cat. Who bloody cares where it came from?"  
  
"It probably just came from Flea Bottom anyhow," Tommen shrugged, agreeing with the Hound. "Makes more sense than it being a pampered prince of a cat anyhow."  
  
Anguy nodded in agreement before raising his cup for a sip, and so Tyrion continued onwards to the cabin that he shared with the Seaworth knight, where dinner was ready, and as the Clegane opened the door and as he followed him inside, he saw on the table that it was a great dinner indeed, a small feast to celebrate their success. Though the roast that was the king of the dining table would be nigh impossible to cook on a ship without burning it down in the process, there was steaming hot food all the same, and food that was much more appetising than what they had at the start of their voyage at that, for in the middle of the the table was a hearty dumpling broth, lightly seasoned and smelling like home, whilst around it were the traditional sailor's food and things that they ate alongside the rest of crew. Strong, hard crackers that kept well at sea, hefty smoked sausage wider across than his hand was, thickly cut slices of cheese whose white surface was marked with the red veins of cranberry, there was even a bottleful of the grape jam from the Arbor that Maester Qyburn had suggested they bring aboard, the crew having heeded his advice that such a food might keep them from succumbing to the rigors of scurvy and its sweet taste making it well welcome on their table. In the corner of it all was a small cask of ale, filled with the good Reachman ale from below decks, but almost as welcome a sight was the small bowl of butter, softened by the warmth of their lamps and candles, all part of a dinner that was not just to celebrate a victory, but to welcome a guest who had only just learned were aboard their ship...and one whose advice had helped them a great deal on their journey so far, and would help them a great deal more.  
  
He whistled cheerfully as he walked over to the head of the table where he was always sat, a set of steps alongside the chair for him to climb atop easier and a cushion to raise him higher so that he was at an eye level with even the Clegane, just as there had been at Casterly Rock before the start of their voyage, and as he settled into his chair, Sandor fell into his, the two waiting for Davos to return from the maester. Sandor was quiet, even in the armor he almost never removed, looking towards his empty plate and nothing else, as if wishing to simply force their meal to appear on its silver surface so as to be able to return below deck again.  
  
Unusually quiet.  
  
"Are you well, Clegane?" Tyrion asked, placing his cup beneath the cask's spigot and carefully filling it. "You have said little since our battle with the Silence."  
  
"I spoke about the cat," the Clegane answered flatly.  
  
"And that was probably the one time you spoke before now," Tyrion said, setting his cup down again, only half full so as to not spill in a powerful wave. "My lord father gave me command of this mission. If there is anything that might stop you from doing your part, such as a fear of fire -"  
  
"Seven hells, dwarf, must we talk about if you already know?" Sandor snapped, leaning towards Tyrion with a hard glare and making the dwarf wonder for a moment if he had gone a step too far.  
  
"I apologise," he said, honest. "I merely wished to know what troubled you so."  
  
Before the Clegane could answer with whatever words were in his throat, the door opened again and in stepped Ser Davos Seaworth, clean bandages neatly wrapped around his wounded shoulder in a perfect demonstration of the healing work of a maester, and though he was surely safe from the risk of the wound going bad, his face bore the pained expression that came from a wound cleaned with the orange ointment that was Myrish fire. He walked through the room to his seat with the movements of a man who had spent almost his entire life at sea, Tyrion silently grateful for his timely arrival and for the chance to speak with someone other than the fuming and quiet Clegane, almost as much as Sandor was surely happy to no longer need to talk about his own pains and fears, yet the Seaworth looked to the both of them and knew.  
  
"Am I interrupting something?" Davos asked as he climbed into his seat, the chair nailed to the floor so as to stop it from sliding about in storms.  
  
"We were talking about the battle, is all," Tyrion answered with a sip of his ale before. "How is the arm?"  
  
"The maester does good work," Davos answered, filling his own cup. "But that fire of his hurt more than the arrow did."  
  
"Better to have that pain than have your arm fall off," Tyrion reasoned, the knight letting out a laugh in reply. "Still, it is good to see that you won't be dying from a wound gone bad anytime soon."  
  
"Aye, and I'm grateful enough for that," Davos smiled. "It wouldn't be good for anyone if I died from an arrow when you're planning to sail across the open sea."  
  
"All the more reason to be grateful you are still here. As for our guest...will she be coming?"  
  
"She better be," grunted the Hound.  
  
"Aye, I spoke to her on the way here," Davos nodded. "She's making sure our course is straight. She'll be coming when she's done, though I'm not sure what we should say to her. She's as highborn as you, even if she does come from Pyke."  
  
"Should we start with an apology for killing her brothers during the rebellion?" Tyrion japed before growing serious. "There is little planning that we can do. We would never have known who she was were it not for her uncle telling us so."  
  
"But why wouldn't she tell us the truth about who she was?" Davos asked as he thought, leaning onto the table with his good arm and careful to avoid irritating the wound. "She wouldn't have had anything to lose if she did. Even Bronn would have been wise enough to treat her better."  
 _  
He's right_ , Tyrion realized as he leaned forward to answer. _Why would Balon Greyjoy's daughter lie about who she was? She has nothing to gain from it and more to lose. Her birth would keep her safe like armor.  
_  
"Could it be a trap?" Sandor Clegane asked with a harsh voice as he looked across the table to the Seaworth. "You let her do all the navigating."  
  
"I check her course myself everytime," Davos answered with a shake of his head. "Even if it was, there would be no need for her to be on the ship. She could have gotten off at the Arbor, booked passage on another ship and we would have still been attacked by the Silence."  
  
"And might be they would have won without her," Tyrion added, thinking. "She would have met my father before the voyage, and everyone in Westeros knows that my father does not take slights lightly. Attacking us on this journey would be more than a slight. He would invade the isles, with or without Robert's permission."  
  
"Not to mention that an attack on a Lannister ship would bring all the realms to the Iron Islands again, not just the west," Davos agreed. "An attack was definitely not what she was planning, and I doubt she knew that the Silence was here either. You saw yourself how she and Euron spoke to one another. There's no lost love there."  
  
"Then why is she  _here?_ " Tyrion countered. "She must have more important things to do than come along with us to Seven know's where, and she could do all that without risking her life to pirates, storms or fleshsmiths or anything else."  
  
"Whatever it is must be important," Davos shrugged, wincing instantly with regret before steeling himself and continuing onwards. "She wouldn't be here if it wasn't."  
  
And then he looked to the pot that sat in the table's midst, filling the air with a delicious scent. "...mind if I start? It'll go cold."  
  
"Not at all, so long as we all have a fair share," Tyrion answered before leaning back into his seat, thinking with crossed arms as the Seaworth reached across the table for the silver spoon that rested against the cauldron's edge, carefully scooping out three of the large dumplings and the broth that they floated in before tipping it out onto his plate, the smell becoming all the more intense...and all the more distracting in how they made him realize how hungry he was..  
  
"Would you do mine, as well?" he asked, raising his plate for the Seaworth to give him a scoop before the Hound followed, Davos giving them all a fair share. "Where is -"  
  
Then the door snapped open, a cold breeze flowing into the room through the opening that carried with it the scent of salt and sea, candles flickering upon the table from the sudden breeze as the Ironborn woman stepped inside. Unarmored since the end of their battle and their passage through the most dangerous parts of the Stepstones, she wore not the soft silky dresses of a maiden of the Seven Kingdoms, but hard boiled leather well suited for a life at sea and on the harsh isles that were her homeland, all without the colors or sigil of her line, but her shape and form and looks told that better than any crest ever could now that he knew what to look for. She was long legged and tall, nearly enough so that she would be able to look his brother Jaime in the eye, and she was agile and lithe as well, but not in the way that a normal noblewoman was, no, she was pantherine in grace, able to strike hard and fast as only a battle tested warrior could, but it was her face that caught his attention most, for he could see the deep blue eyes and raven hair that were known across all Seven Kingdoms as the telltale signs of Greyjoy heritage, traits which could be found in many songs and tales of reavers and raiders riding in on the waves of dawn. She bore the scars of battle on her cheeks, little scratches and nicks and marks, nothing disfiguring, nothing that would seem out of place on even a peasant girl or milkmaid and he knew that to be so lightly marked after so many battles as she surely had was nothing less than a show of her skill at arms, for there were trained knights who went into battle for the first time only to be maimed and disfigured, and yet there she was in all her striking beauty.  
  
And she was beautiful in her own way, beautiful not as the delicate swans that were other ladies, but beautiful the way a mighty mountain might be, the hard beauty that the Iron Islands were known for in their men and women and metalwork and ships and castles and in the very isles themselves.  
  
 _Or mayhaps it is simply because I haven't seen any other women since we left the Arbor,_  he thought to himself as the Greyjoy woman closed the door behind them, letting the cabin heat itself to comfort once more. _Or because I am drinking ale on an empty belly._  
  
"Please, sit," Tyrion said as he had before with the maester, offering the seat opposite with an open hand, his words polite and diplomatic, as though he were treating with any normal lady. "Do you know why it is that we wish to speak with you?"  
  
The Greyjoy woman stepped forth and sat in the chair in complete silence, more interested in the fine meal before her than in listening to his words, and for a moment Tyrion thought to repeat himself in case he somehow hadn't been heard, till at last she met him in the eye and he knew that this was no ploy or trick; there was as much iron within her as there was without.  
  
 _She's like Clegane,_  he thought to himself as he met her gaze with his own, matching her eye for eye and stare for stare.  _You need to look her in the eye, else she'll never respect you._  
  
Then she laughed, seeming to relax at last. "You're worried I'm leading you to your deaths, aren't you?"  
  
"I will admit the thought came to me," Tyrion said honestly, Davos looking to him with surprise before returning to his meal. "But the fact that I am here in a seat and not on the ocean floor makes me think that was never your plan."  
  
"If it was, you would have never made it to the Arbor," Asha answered simply, passing her cup to Davos to be filled with ale from their cask. "Every man who reaves in Essos must sail around half of Westeros first. A ship like this with bright red sails would be easy enough to find for any reaver worth their salt, and a longship moves quietly enough that the crew could have came in the night, had grapnels on the deck and come aboard before any of you realized what was happening."  
  
Taking the ale from Davos, she took a sip before setting her cup down. "So yes, I'm not here to lead you into a trap."  
  
"And I doubt you are here to see the world as you said," Tyrion said, watching with close eyes as the Greyjoy woman calmly took a cracker and slathered it with jam, utterly at ease and almost unnervingly so. "So why are you here? Why would a highborn woman of the Iron Islands be serving my lord father by joining his crew?"  
  
"Why not?" she asked, evading his question and revealing that there was a sharp mind within, as well as a brave one. "Have I done anything to lose your trust? I've charted swift courses. Told you what food to find. Even shown you my uncle's ship. I haven't lied to you since we set out."  
  
"So you are Asha Greyjoy, then," Tyrion replied, happy to nail down at least one thing and give him a place to work from. "But you  _did_ lie to us. Why didn't you reveal who you were after we left port? Why didn't you do it  _then?_ "  
  
"Why  _not?_ " she asked again, shrugging her shoulders as she took the spoon from the midst of the cauldron and scooped a serving onto her plate, stabbing a dumpling through on her knife before looking across the table to him again. "Does it make that much of a difference either way?"  
  
Tyrion leaned forward and closed his eyes with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was no fool. Certainly, his wits were the one thing the gods had deigned to give him in return for all they hadn't in looks and strength. He could talk to people well enough. Provoke them. Find what made them who they were. Understand them. Talk to them. Yet here he was, frustrated by an Ironborn woman whose words were as slippery as an eel.  
  
He sighed again. She was smiling, now.  
  
"Must we do this?" he asked, growing serious and yet softer all the same. "I mean no harm to you, nor do I plan to use whatever you say against you. We all have our reasons for being here. I am here so that my father can see that I am not so useless as my size might make him think."  
  
Then he raised his hand and gestured towards Davos. "He is is here to provide for his family so that they might live better than he did."  
  
"Aye," Davos nodded, speaking for the first time since the Greyjoy entered. "Lord Tywin is paying me for the journey."  
  
"And Sandor is here for a chance of revenge," Tyrion said as he moved his arm towards the Hound, the Clegane giving him a hard glare in reply and a grunt, yet thankful he said nothing more as the dwarf looked back across the table to the Greyjoy. "We're all going to be on this ship for months longer. All I want is to know why a Greyjoy is here so far away from Pyke, for your family have little love for mine. Nothing more. Is that so much to ask?"  
  
She looked to him then, different, less playing and more serious.  
  
"Fine," she said at last, voice hardening like iron. "I'll tell you why I'm here, because I know exactly where we're going and  _why_."  
  
A chill went down Tyrion's spine. He swallowed.  
  
"You know of our mission? How? Who told you?"  
  
"I've known since before we left port," Asha answered. "Iron Islanders are known as the best sailors and swimmers in the world, so most merchants take them aboard as part of their crew since they already know the oars and sails and won't drown if they fall overboard and aren't bothered by rough seas."  
  
Then she smiled again.  
  
"How else would our reavers know exactly where and when the most precious ships would be?"  
  
"And it just so happened to be a merchant ship that found the wreck," Tyrion sighed. "Does anyone else know? Your family, mayhaps?"  
  
"My father and uncles wouldn't listen to such news even if they thought to hear it," she answered truthfully. "I heard it because I have the wits to know that trading can be done with a ship as much as reaving can."  
  
"This...changes things," Davos warned. "If people know about the wreck, then they might know why we are going there."  
  
"They don't," Asha answered. "The only reason I realized was because they said it was a ship with red sails, no oars and a golden lion on the prow. If I hadn't known that your uncle Gerion had sailed east in a ship like that, then I doubt I would have ever realized it was his, yet alone what it might be carrying."  
  
"Are you certain no one else knows?" Tyrion asked quickly and with a quiet voice in case he might be overheard by the crew, all of whom would know the value of Valyrian steel. "If anyone knows then we might be sailing into a trap, Ironborn or not."  
  
"Not that I know of," she said with certainty. "You would need a man who knew enough about the Westerlands to know who Gerion was and who managed to meet someone serving on the ship that found the wreck. Even then most men who heard of it wouldn't want to risk sailing so far south only for there to be nothing there. They need proof."  
  
"Then we should have little enough to worry about," Davos agreed. "I wouldn't sail so far south for just a chance of finding something. I would  _need_ to know that it was there for the voyage to be worth the risk. No one who has the ships and coin to sail so far south would do it for a sword that may or may not be there."  
  
"Exactly," Asha said before continuing. "As for why I am here, what I said as Esgred is not as far from the truth as you might expect. This gives me the chance to go where very few Ironborn have ever gone before. That means more than you might think on the Isles."  
  
"Because you're a woman," Tyrion said in realization.  
  
"What?" she asked, taken by surprise by his words.  
  
"You're here because you are a  _woman_ ," Tyrion said, growing more certain as he saw the expression on her face change. "There are hundreds of songs and stories about Ironborn warrior women fighting alongside men, there are even some about them leading men into battle and being respected for it. But only a handful ever mention women as  _lords_. You're the only child your father has left at Pyke since your elder brothers died and your younger brother was sent to Winterfell as a hostage, so surely he is raising you as his heir, mayhaps because he fears that Theon will have more of the North in him than the Iron Islands."  
  
He saw how right he was on Asha's face, how taken aback she was by his words, unable to come up with an answer as swiftly as she had before. That was his answer. She was here to prove that she was as capable as any man. Sandor laughed to himself, a low bellowing rumble.  
  
"You should have known not to talk to a Lannister," Clegane said to the Ironwoman. "They're too clever for their own good."  
  
"You're only half right, dwarf," Asha answered before sighing. "Close enough that I may as well tell you the rest."  
  
Then she slumped back into her seat, throwing her dagger onto the plate before her. "When Theon was taken after the end of the war, we were ruined. My mother lost herself. My father...for the first time in his life, he didn't know what to do with himself. He had lost his crown, his fleet, his sons. He would have been a broken man, were it not for my uncle Aeron returning with faith."  
  
" _What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger,"_  she continued. "We were defeated, yes, but not dead. That was enough for him. To have a chance for vengeance. So we went on as we always did. We rebuilt our castles, built new ships and he groomed me as his heir should he die before we had won our vengeance. As you said, there was the fear that my brother might come back more a Stark than a Greyjoy and lead us all to ruin, but he was also afraid that he might not be able to do what needed to be done."  
  
"To kill Lord Eddard Stark?" Tyrion asked. "It makes sense. He could well have grown to see him as his father after so many years."  
  
"To kill Stark **s** ," she said, placing emphasis on the last letter. "My father would have his eldest sons killed. Two sons for two sons."  
  
"You sound less certain."  
  
"I might well be," Asha admitted. "We tried to take on all Seven Kingdoms last time. We gave you a bloody nose."  
  
"And then you were crushed."  
  
"And then we were crushed," Asha echoed with a sigh, taking a long gulp of ale. "We're not as strong as we were in the Hoare days, and the rest of the realm is more so. Three hundred years of peace and prosperity might make you soft, aye, but it lets you build. Build ships. Build castles. Build  _numbers._  They used to say an Ironborn warrior was worth twenty greenlanders -"  
  
Clegane laughed to himself.  
  
"- but that doesn't help when there are two hundred of you for every one of us. We could win every battle and still lose the war because we would run out of men and ships first, and do so without doing enough damage to keep you down."  
  
"And we are united, now," Tyrion agreed. "Seven Kingdoms with one king."  
  
"Exactly," Asha nodded. "The Iron Kings of old played the realms off of one another and went for the weakest ones. We knew we could fight in one place for a time, abandon it when the resistance became too strong and then move somewhere else. But it doesn't work when the Seven Kingdoms are united. We don't have the men. They would never heed my word if I told them we would never be able to win another war."  
  
"Because you're a woman."  
  
"I have charted courses that have kept longships sailing straight and steady for days at a time, I've provisioned for my crew, I've killed dozens of men and led a hundred more into battle," she said grimly. "But because I was born without a cock between my legs, I am somehow not good enough to sit the Seastone Chair."  
  
"My father might be willing to give me his support, but his vassals would not. I would be challenged at every turn."  
  
"So that is why you are here," Tyrion accepted at last. "To get the support you need to press your claim to the isles. Does my father know that is what you are planning?"  
  
"Your father is one of the men who are going to be helping me," she said, a smile starting to appear on her cheeks again. "My own would never allow Theon to take his place. He's been gone too long. But that means that the only others who might take my place are my uncles. But they fought in the rebellion, all of them. If any of them inherit the Iron Islands, they'll launch another invasion even if it would just lead to us being slaughtered again, mayhaps even unseated and replaced this time."  
  
"But the Iron Throne has the power to settle such matters however it pleases, even in the favor of a woman, for how else would Arwyn Oakheart have been able to keep her family's seat?"  
  
"So, you want my father to pressure the crown into allowing you to take your father's seat in your uncles' place," Tyrion said. "That's a large reward for a single voyage."  
  
"It is, but having a friend in the Seastone Chair is worth more than just a voyage, even one like this," she said at last. "He helps me take my title, he gets an ally with a fleet and needn't worry about another invasion. My part here is as much to prove to my lords that I have the skill and courage to lead them, as few of them have ever dared to go so far south as Sothoryos. And none have ever gone to Gogossos. No Ironborn ever has."  
  
"...why not?" Sandor asked, confused.  
  
"It's not safe there," she answered simply, straightening herself out and meeting him in the eye. "The Ironborn do not fear any man, no matter how strong or dangerous he might be."  
  
"But...the things there..." she quietened. "They  _aren't_ ** _men_**."  
  
"...fleshsmiths," the Clegane sighed under his breath, trying to seem strong and bold and utterly unfazed yet having an edge of unease coming through his tone all the same. "Whatever they made must be dead by now."  
  
"I hope so," Asha replied. "They made more of those beasts by mating them with women. But even if they're all gone, there are still basilisks, manticores and the brindled men there."  
  
"Anyway," Tyrion said more cheerfully, desperate to change the topic from the grim realities of their destination. "Has anyone heard any good sailing songs?"  
  
The rest of the meal was more silent than not.  
  


****  
 **A week later, Lys.**

Davos gently flexed his wounded shoulder beneath the shirt as he stood on the aft castle, clenching his fist tight and holding his arm as though he had a sword in his hand as he rocked his arm back and forth, easing the healing muscle back into work as the King Gerold slipped her way over the smooth waters of the Narrow Sea, the winds once again on their side ever since they had made their turn from the easternmost of the islands of the Stepstones towards the southeast and into open sea, into the waters that the Lysene claimed as theirs, the last stretch of their journey before they turned their sails to the south and made their way towards Sothoryos. Their voyage was already nearly half done thanks to the great speed of the ship beneath his feet, and though they were further to the south east than he had normally went, these were familiar waters, well known to any good sailor and frequented by fleets of merchantmen, safe, and for the first time since they had made their way out of the pirate's forest that was the Broken Arm of Dorner the crew were at ease.  
  
Truly at ease. There was no worry about an attack here when they were so close to one of the most maritime of the Free Cities, and though their victory over the pirates of the Narrow Sea had only served to make the crew more confident in their abilities to repel and attack and more comfortable with the risks of sea travel, the renewed spirits that their triumph had brought them had since faded away and left them facing an enemy that was not nearly as easy to defeat.  
  
Boredom.  
  
Though Davos knew that the singers made out a life at sea to be half glory and half bloodshed and death, much of the time spent sailing was time where there was little to do but occasional bits of repair and cleaning to make sure their ship stayed seaworthy and little else, time where the crew had little to do, and it had begun to take its toll on the spirits of the crew. The journey from Lannisport to the Arbor had been half as long as the one they were making now, if that, for the slow winds off the coast of Dorne had stifled their sails and made it take all the longer, and he could see it now. The sun was shining in what was a beautiful day for sailing, yet the men looked more tired than not, exhausted by the lack of anything interesting to do, and even the cards that were the staple of a sailor's life had been given up on after the hundredth game, the cards so familiar that they could tell what cards they had in one another's hands just from the creases.  
  
Stories had been told and retold. Songs had been sang and resang. Conversations had and had again. It was the symptom of a crew that had been on the ship together for too long without rest on shore, and it was painfully frustrating, even for a veteran seafarer such as himself, a man who knew that this was but a reality of life at sea.  
  
He could look to any member of the crew and know everything that there was to know about them, now, recognizing them on sight from a mere glance over the balcony as he brought his arm down to rest, as the maester had advised when he first mentioned the exercises and how they would help him heal. There was Tommen on the forecastle, who was a veteran from the war against the Greyjoys and who never quite let his guard down when Asha was around, trusting her little before she revealed who was she was and even less since, keeping a weapon at ready reach on his hip and glancing often whenever she stood on the aft as lookout. There was blackhaired Ty of Riverspring not far from him, whistling the tune of  _Bessa the Barmaid_ , a pious man who had been in service with the Sarwycks before that boy of theirs went eastwards to join the Red Faith, after which he had brought his skills to Casterly Rock after Lord Raynald's wits began to go in his age and joined the crew for coin so that his sons might learn to read and write and have the chance of knighthood as part of the Lannister household. There was the sight of the hardfaced and hardly haired Lucion pacing back and forth on the deck for a want of anything else to do, who had the thick accent of a man from the mountains and the large shoulders of a lineage that had earned its bread through toiling their hours away in one of the many mines that dotted the western lands.  
  
All of them he knew nearly as well as he knew his sons, now, and all of them were tired of it all, on edge, and even the cheerful Anguy and Bronn were both seemingly out of optimism at this point. Davos was even sure that Bronn had even squeezed the Greyjoy's behind again  _because_  he would get hit and have something else to do other than standing around doing nothing all day.  
  
 _They just need a chance to stretch their legs again,_  he knew, leaning onto the railing.  _Any other ship would have stopped at Sunspear on the way to Lys for a chance to let the crew rest. For a Lannister you might as well be pushing them into a pit of snakes.  
_  
"Any sight of Lys, yet?" asked the tired Tyrion, sat on the railings with a rope around his waist in case of chop, watching the wyvern soaring above as it hunted seabirds.  
  
"We can't be far if there are gulls," answered the Greyjoy woman, not even bothering to raise the Myrish eye to look. "They never fly far from land."  
  
"We should be there in less than an hour," Davos said, turning to face his comrades. "I've sailed these waters before."  
  
"How far have you sailed, Davos?" the dwarf asked. "You've been to the Arbor, you've been to Lys, and those are long journeys for a smuggler out of King's Landing."  
  
"I've been all over the Seven Kingdoms and been to most of the Free Cities," he answered honestly. "Only the ones on the Narrow Sea, though. Any of them more east than that and they were too far out of the way to be worth it or too dangerous."  
  
"Dangerous?" Tyrion asked. "How so?"  
  
"There's a reason you don't see many Qohorik or Norvoshi goods in Westeros," the ex smuggler answered. "Those cities are inland, so you either cross by land or sail up the Rhoyne. The first has Dothraki  _khalasars_. The second is treacherous, as the Rhoyne has gone wild, so the currents will as often smash you against rocks as it does take you to your destination. Lorath is nearly as bad, as the waters are rough enough there to sink a ship nearly as large as this one."  
  
"...how bad might it be in the south, then?" Tyrion asked. "Are we in any danger?"  
  
"The Summer Islanders make the voyage all the time, so it cannot be too dangerous for us to make our passage," Davos said. "But we'll want to be prepared for the worst if it comes."  
  
"Lys gives us a chance to pick up anything we might need," Tyrion reasoned.  
  
"And we're going to need bolts of sail cloth, planks of seasoned timber, rope for rigging and nails, too," Asha said as she extended an arm as the wyvern swooped low, the tiny dragon perching on her arm with a small gull between its mouth before stepping off onto the railings. "And tools. Saws, hammers, everything."  
  
"Do we need a carpenter as well?" Tyrion asked dryly, a jape from a weary mind.  
  
"It would help," Davos nodded. "A little problem can become a big one if we're far away from a port able to repair a ship this big."  
  
"I doubt you'd find one willing to come along where we're going, though," Asha added.  
  
"I'm sure we can find what we're looking for in Lys," Tyrion sighed. "Though I doubt it will be cheap."  
  
"Better for it to be expensive and hold together on the way than cheap and have it fall apart when we need it," Davos reasoned. "Regardless, the Lysene are proud shipbuilders and sailors. It comes with being an island. Everything we might need we'll be able to get at a good price."  
  
"And food as well?"  
  
"The Lysene are clever," Davos said. "They know how to bottle. They boil food whilst its sealed in a bottle, like wine. It cooks from the juice they put in, so it lasts ages."  
  
"...doesn't that stuff make their faces stiff?" Asha asked. "Something in the meat?"  
  
"That's why they stopped doing meat," Davos answered. "And fish. They never could figure out what was causing it."  
  
"...what do you mean it made their  _faces_ stiff?" Tyrion asked. "They couldn't move their cheeks?"  
  
"Or any other part of their face, like blinking," Asha shrugged. "It kills by stopping you from breathing."  
  
"Oh, good," Tyrion sighed. "So now we must deal with dying from bottled food as well as whatever the hells is in Sothoryos."  
  
"It's only the meats that can cause it, and even then not always," Davos explained, soothing the Lannister's concerns. "The Lysene know that's not safe, so they don't do it."  
  
"They bottled strawberry pie, once," Asha said with quiet amusement.  
  
"For a voyage as long as ours, we'll want some in the hold to give a change from the norm every now and then," Davos finished, not so much as glancing towards the Greyjoy. "But that means finding more pickled herring."  
  
"Seven hells," the dwarf sighed.  
  
"At least this time we'll know what to expect," Davos said, trying to raise the little Lannister's spirits, only for the dwarf to look as though he might throw himself overboard. "Best for us to find something for the men to do whilst we're at sea as well."  
  
"Asha," Tyrion said, looking towards the Ironborn woman, his eyes brightening with an idea. "What do your people do to pass the time during a voyage?"  
  
"They sing, drink and play the finger dance and see who loses the least amount of their hand," she answered bluntly, raising her right hand to show a short fingertip on her middle finger. "Best not to drink before doing the dance, though."  
  
Tyrion looked at her, jaw agape.Then he turned back to the Seaworth.  
  
"Do you have any ideas, Davos?"  
  
"Bring a harp," Anguy said as he climbed onto the aft castle before the Seaworth could reply. "Your father gave us everything we could need, but he didn't give us anything we would  _want._ "  
  
"A harp?" Tyrion asked. "Why?"  
  
"No, he has a point," Davos agreed. "Your lord father gave us the best supplies we might've asked for, but nothing to do when there was nothing happening."  
  
"It's as if he expected everyone to be working all the time," Tyrion said, laughing. "My dear father, always pushing people on. Anguy! What about this harp?"  
  
"Have you ever been to the Dornish Marches?" the archer asked, smiling. "Our songs are marcher ballads. They're made to be song on the march, so they last  _hours._  Some are meant to take days to finish, and the harp is the main instrument the bards use for all the good ones, since it's easy to play as you walk."  
  
"It wouldn't be expensive to find," Davos suggested to Tyrion, in agreement with the Marcherman. "We could probably find three or four of them for less than a gold dragon."  
  
"If it helps with moments like these, then it could cost a thousand," Tyrion said. "I'll try to find something to keep us busy during the last bit of our journey, but I think just seeing Lys will cheer us up more than any song could."  
  
"Then you're lucky," Anguy said, squinting his eyes as he looked into the distance. "I think I see an island."  
  
Davos turned, striding over the deck as Asha raised the Myrish eye, and the Ironborn woman grinned before passing the long tube to the Seaworth captain and letting him see for himself...and he saw not just an island, but a city, shining beneath the sun, close enough to be seen but still too far for the details to be clear. And yet it was not straight on, but a little to the side of where it should have been if their course was exact.  
  
He cursed under his breath in silence.  
  
"You were off by not even a degree, Davos," she said. "So close."  
  
"Considering I charted this course in the Arbor, I would call that accurate," he said with a smile as he passed the lense back before turning to the dwarf again. "Its close enough that we would come straight out where we need to go in the south, my lord, but we might be off by a little distance, if this happens again."  
  
"Might be best to let me chart the course next time," Asha seemed to suggest and tease at the same time, smirking ever so slightly. "Else we could end up off course again."  
  
"You said yourself that the Ironborn never went so far south so its not as if ," he answered, smiling as her own smirk disappeared from her face. "In any case, we best make the turn. You know the tiller well."  
  
Asha sighed, though it was more of an annoyed grunt than a sigh, and marched over to the tiller, grasping tightly with a bare hand as she pushed one way and forced the ship to turn the other, bringing their prow towards the distant city, the softest creak as the ship turned to face the loveliest of the Free Cities. Instantly the wind seemed to pick up, flooding their sails as if brought by the blessing of the Seven themselves to speed their journey, and the deck turned crimson as the sun shone through the scarlet cloth to bathe the planks in its glow...and with it, the crew themselves began to rise from the groom of a long and quiet journey, relaxing at last as men from below decks rose to the fore castle to see a sight that few Westerosi ever did.  
  
Lys.  
  
And what a sight it was, for if the Arbor was beautiful, then the isles of Lys were nothing short of paradise. Striding across the decks and down the steps with the small Lannister close besides, Tyrion smiling at the chance to see a sight that he wouldn't have had a chance to see but for their journey, he rose to the forecastle and moved through the crowd of murmuring sailors to see one of Valyria's heirs in all her splendour. There were dozens of islands, gemstones of pearl and emerald that shone in the sapphire sea, all of which combined were not so big as the Arbor, and yet the city built on their shores was half again as great as Lannisport and almost as grand as King's Landing itself, all of which were connected together by great bridges of glittering marble and all of which were home to ports great and small, every yard that the King Gerold sailed bringing new details for him to see. The beaches were not the grey stony things of the Crownlands or the Westerlands, but fine and pearly white, complementing the beauty of the buildings all around, and they were dotted by great palm trees, waving gently in the low breeze. The buildings themselves were old, certainly so, but fantastically constructed and marvels of art and architecture united as one, truly beautiful sights to behold that dated back to the days of the Valyrian Freehold, whose dragonlords so often visited the city to rest and relax away from the politicking of their busy and sprawling capital, yet there were newer things, too, things that were not so splendid, ones he recognized from the last time that he had visited the wondrous city. The quay itself that they approached was made from rough grey brick, not the beautifully crafted white that adorned the rest of the isles of Lys, and the warehouses and cranes and all the other things that adorned the harbor were new as well, like a blemish upon a maiden's cheek...and watching over the harbour were the reasons that so many young heirs and wealthy merchantmen and victorious mercenaries made certain the visit the city, for there were the pillow houses that were the home of the greatest beauties in all the world, women of hair as shining as silver and amethyst eyes, looks that could be found everywhere here, so true was the tales of an unbroken lineage that began with the Freehold.  
  
"I've always wanted to visit a pillow house," muttered one of the sailors, leaning onto the railings as the soft curtains of the brothels wavered in the winds, brightly colored so as to be seen from even the horizon.  
  
"You'll have to wait your chance," Tyrion said. "I'm going to visit them  _all._ "  
  
Davos laughed, then. "Even a Lannister doesn't have that much gold."  
  
"You've been to a pleasure house before, Davos?" Tyrion asked, a sly smile on a face that was ready for a jape..  
  
"They're a good place to lie low, meet with friends you wouldn't want seen anywhere else."  
  
"Do you have a mistress, ser?" Tyrion laughed. "Someone your wife doesn't know about?"  
  
"No, but I someone better," he answered, smiling. "Salladhor Saan."  
  
"Your very own pirate prince!" Tyrion laughed, others adding their cheer to his. "Not the sort of company I would expect you to keep. Why not a pretty Lysene girl, with sunshine hair? Or one of those fiery Dornish women?"  
  
"Is anyone on here someone you would expect to be travelling with?" Davos asked back. "Besides, its unworthy of you when you're married like me."  
  
"Half the realm would disagree," Tyrion answered. "But very well. More whores for me."  
  
"I wouldn't be so eager," Davos said lowly, the cheerfulness of the men dying down as they saw his grim expression. "You don't know Lys like I do."  
  
"How so?" Tyrion asked, narrowing his brow. "Is there something I need to worry about?"  
  
"Aye," Davos answered as the ship sailed into the harbor, sailors already working to reef its sails without so much as a need for a command to be given. "Take a look at that statue looking down on the bay."  
  
"What statue?" the dwarf asked, climbing onto the railing at the very edge of the rope's length, peeking onto the shore. "There are dozens, and all of them are women."  
  
Davos raised his arm, then, and pointed towards one that towered over them all, a pale beauty that had been painted with lighter shades than her sisters, her cheeks covered in silver tears as she looked across the port with sorrow.  
  
"That's the Weeping Lady," he said. "And on her cheeks are the Tears of Lys. This city is like a treacherous woman. She'll smile to you and take you into her bed, but the moment you stop paying attention she'll put a dagger in your back."  
  
"But I am a Lannister," Tyrion answered quietly. "They surely wouldn't do me any harm for that."  
  
" _Because_ you are a Lannister," Davos said. "The Lysene married into the Targaryens before. If anyone across the Narrow Sea is a friend of theirs, Lys is it. Pleasure and  **poison**  are their specialties here."  
  
Tyrion went wide eyed, then, and the men grew concerned for their safety, but Davos simply patted him on the shoulder and prayed that they would heed his words before stepping down the forecastle and onto the deck, looking above where the men were slowly reefing the sails.  
  
"Hurry up, you lot!" he shouted so that he might be heard by even the highest sailor, crawling over the rigging, fumbling with the ropes as only men who had grown complacent could. "If we don't start to slow down soon we'll smash into the port!"  
  
He sighed, watching them tangling the ropes as they worked, but slowly and surely, the sails began to rise onto the masts, little by little, the men remembering how to work and being joined by others, the rest of the crew working together to stop the ship from slamming into the hard quay and shattering its prow. Such damage would have taken weeks to repair, even months, time that they could not afford to lose even with them being far ahead of their schedule, for even minute that passed was another minute of risking that someone else might be blown off course and find the blade and claim it for themselves...and such would bode ill for what the Lord of Casterly Rock would do to them - all of them - for losing the blade simply because they couldn't stop the ship quick enough. Even Stannis probably wouldn't be able to protect him then. Who could, when the lion had a nigh limitless supply of gold and he had the responsibility of ensuring such a mistake shouldn't occur?  
  
And so he looked above...and grinned as they finally tamed the topsail that had been lashing back at them in the wind, the foresail rolling up just a moment after and letting him feel the deceleration in his feet as the ship slowed to a more leisurely pace, as it had at the Arbor, and the city grew closer at a slower but safer pace, revealing the little nuances that came with being one of Valyria's daughters: though a city like Lys needn't bother with walls thanks to the protection of the oceans, they were there all the same, high things that were more formidable than all but the greatest fortifications in the Seven Kingdoms, yet they were placed with a master's eye to using the terrain and were built into the islands themselves, looking more like cliffs than not, every tower and every arrow slit placed according to the most precise of calculations to ensure that they had overlapping fields of fire with the ones beside, ensuring that any attacker would find themselves in a storm of arrows from the moment they stepped foot upon the shore and sally ports that were hidden in the sands and which would allow the defender to strike them in the rear as they pressed against the walls, something he only knew was there because he had seen one before when the magisters grew worried by the threat of war and turned their attentions to repairing their battlements. But unlike the walls of King's Landing, Lannisport and even Storm's End, these walls were not monoliths made as much to intimidate those beneath them as to protect the grounds within, but part of the surrounding city; their crenels were beautiful sculptures, bricks bore the marks of paint that had faded away centuries before, even the gatehouses were less aggressive looking than that of a Westerosi castle, their towers looking more like spread legs than not.  
  
All this could be seen from the distance and with ease, for it was the exact reason why the Valyrians had raised the city in the first place. It was a place where their dragonlords and heroes could travel to rest and renew themselves, and it was for this reason that it was such a contrast from the heavily draconic stylings of other Valyrian fortresses and places, like Dragonstone, why it lacked seamless black walls like those of Volantis and why it bristled with towering palm trees and not scorpion towers like those of the other cities. It was unique. It was a city made to be unique. It was a city made so that those who visited it would notice that it was  _nothing_  like anywhere else in the Freehold, and that made Davos wonder. Had the dragonlords that had made the Valyrian Freehold invincible thought that what they had made was wrong, and so created a place that could never remind them of it? Were they taking to their terrible mounts to crush rebellious slaves all whilst having their own doubts, their own private treacherous thoughts that were never acted upon? Surely some of them would have realized that the untold suffering of the countless thousands who went to the Fourteen Flames to toil and die was wrong?  
  
Or was he the one who was wrong, and they simply built Lys in order to have a change of scenery and to avoid being reminded of the stresses of their capital? Or was it between those things?  
  
 _Seven hells, Davos,_  he sighed to himself.  _It is a city. Nothing more. If the dragonlords had any reason for making it the way it is, it died with them._  
  
He shook his head to himself. Men always got philosophical when there was nothing around for them to do. It came with them seeing the same thing day in and day out. All the more reason to spend time ashore, even if it came down to simply standing around on the wharf waiting for the dwarf to find the right goods to buy for their voyage to Sothoryos and back.  
  
 _And back,_  his mind echoed as an afterthought.  
  
"Seven hells," he murmured in instant realization, making his way back up the forecastle as the ship passed the first length of quay, slowly and gently making its way towards an opening thanks to Asha's guiding hand, the dwarf still resting on the railings even though the rest of the sailors had returned ot their duties. "Tyrion."  
  
"Yes, Davos?"  
  
"We need food to get there and  _ **back**_ ," he said quietly. "We won't be able to pick up food whilst  _we are there_  as we would on any normal voyage."  
  
  
"That is obvious enough," Tyrion said with a smile. "We just need to take more food."  
  
"But Sothoryos is  _hot_ ," Davos said. "It'll make the food go off in the holds before we made our way back. We will need food that can last us there and last us back, and enough of it to keep the crew alive, and it needs to be something that won't have the men throwing themselves into the sea for relief."  
  
"We will need crackers, then," Tyrion said simply. "And something to go on them, of course."  
  
"We will need more than crackers if we're to avoid a mutiny on the way there and back," Davos reasoned. "We'll need much more."  
  
"You think the men woukld mutiny over running out of nice food?"  
  
"When you're cramped in on a ship for weeks on end and are eating the same food every day, you get bored, and when you get bored you get frustrated," Davos said quickly. "It doesn't take much to make a man snap then."  
  
"Then we best make sure they have more choice aboard here than they did in Lannisport," Tyrion answered, jumping down from the railing and unfastening the rope around his middle as they entered the port proper and passed a Lysene merchant galley as it departed, oars splashing softly. "You've been here before. If anyone of us knows where a good merchant is, it's you."  
  
"Aye, well, then follow me," Davos said. "This city is full of -"  
  
"Greetings, my friends!" shouted a merchantman from the stone quay as the anchor dropped, the sails reefed and the mooring rope tethered. "May I be the first to welcome a Lannister ship to Lys the Lovely! Might I interest you in a brief"  
  
"Hells," he muttered under his breath. "You can never get rid of these..."  
  
"What brings you to our fair city?" the merchant asked as he stepped forward towards the boarding ramp, smiling warmly with false courtesy. "May I?"  
  
"We're travellers, not cargomen," he answered swiftly, stepping down from the forecastle. "We have no good to sell."  
  
"Travellers?" the merchant asked with interest. "And where is that you are sailing?"  
  
"We're on a tour of the Free Cities," Tyrion said, smiling. "My father granted me the chance for my nameday."  
  
"Ah! You must be Tyrion Lannister!" the merchant said, smiling warmly. "There are few better places to visit on a tour of the Free Cities than here, at beautiful Lys. Might I be a guide? I am sure that there is something that I could be a service in."  
  
He smiled again, looking to the little Lannister with warm and friendly eyes of deepest violet, entirely courteous at every moment. He was perhaps a little smaller than the Seaworth, and yet broadly built as if to defy the expectations most men would have of a merchant, strong and strikingly handsome as all the sons of Valyria were. Silver locks curled down to his shoulders, shining like cloth of silver and sure to draw the eye of many a woman, yet it was the bright colors of yellow and purple that caught his attention, colors known by any man who had listened to the songs that spoke of the brides of the Targaryen kings, and the small Lannister knew it even more than Davos, stepping down the ramp as he whistled the exact song, followed by Sandor Clegane, armored for battle and burnt visage driving the Lysene back across the quay.  
  
"I do believe I have need of a guide," Tyrion said. "But I already have one...and you're a Rogare. Last I heard I would be more likely to be stabbed whilst standing besides you than not."  
  
"Yes, yes, I am a Rogare, Lysando Rogare to be precise," the merchant laughed. "But my family's reputation has changed in the last few centuries since Lysandro. We're upstanding, charitable members of society. None make greater donations to the poor and the downtrodden than my family, owners of the Rogare Bank."  
  
"Did the Braavosi not run you out of business sometime after the First Blackfyre Rebellion?" Tyrion asked. "After you lost hundreds of thousands of gold dragons backing the losing side."  
  
"I will admit we haven't always had the best judgement," Lysando apologized before regaining his smile. "But we have since abandoned such politicking as unworthy of honest men such as ourselves. Now we provide maritime insurance for travellers such as yourselves."  
  
"...and there it is," Davos sighed.  
  
"For just a small fee, I can arrange my men to inspect your ship, determine its worth and then give you an exact price to pay, and for that, you can sail carefree in the knowledge that if your ship is damaged too much to continue, you can have an entirely new ship in under  _one_  month, stocked and provisioned so that you might continue on your way," Lysando said, proudly. "And if nothing happens, you get  _half_  of the money you paid back!"  
  
"What if we were sailing somewhere...less than safe?" Tyrion asked.  
  
"Oh? Like where?" the Rogare asked, intrigued. "Through the Stepstones? If so, I could easily arrange an escort for but a fraction more so that you can travel unhindered."  
  
"Further south."  
  
"The Summer Islands?" the Rogare guessed next. "They are beautiful this time of year, and ever peaceful. There are sights there that cannot be found elsewhere in the world."  
  
"East of that," Tyrion hinted. "With sights that cannot be found elsewhere in the world as well."  
  
Rogare looked back then, puzzled.  
  
And then he blinked in realization.  
  
"You cannot mean -"  
  
"Oh, but I do," Tyrion smiled. "My father wants a wyvern, and so he shall have one."  
  
Then the dwarf extended his arm, and the brown bellied lizard swooped down onto his wrist, tiny talons gripping his sleeve as the miniature dragon hissed at the merchant.  
  
"Several, in fact."  
  
"Well, it seems you are prepared well enough," Lysando said quickly, looking towards the scorpions. "And armed."  
  
"Heavily," Clegane growled, towering over the Rogare banker as Lannister men-at-arms emerged on the deck, wondering what the cause of the delay might be.  
  
"Then it seems you have little need for my offer," Rogare said with a polite bow of his head...and then hurried off, wanting nothing to do with a ship heading to Sothoryos.  
  
"Well, that was a start," Tyrion mused before turning to the crew and giving his commands. "Sandor, Davos, Asha, with me."  
  
Sandor nodded in silence, moving to the dwarf's side with Davos and Asha following close behind, the Greyjoy woman affixing a swordbelt around her waist before sliding down the boarding ramp and onto stone once again.  
  
"Bronn, take the crew out drinking and whoring and whatever else comes to mind," Tyrion said. "One quarter of the crew at a time. If they want payment, tell them to send someone to the ship by sunset. I won't have anyone stabbed because they went around with their coin purse."  
  
The sellsword laughed and grinned. "Gladly."  
  
"And try not to get poisoned."  
  
Bronn looked back at him then, smile fading. "Wait, what?"  
  
"And someone will need to escort Qyburn to find any medicines that we might need for the last part of our voyage, so I am placing the maester under your care, Tommen."  
  
"He won't break so much as a nail, my lord," the man-at-arms answered with a nod.  
  
"Then we will meet here again at dusk for the next three days," Tyrion said lastly. "The next part of our voyage will be long, so make sure you have everything you want before we leave. Now, go and have fun. I'll have any man who isn't smiling by the time I return flogged."  
  
The men laughed at Tyrion's jape, even Davos raising a smile, and the crew began to disperse, some staying behind to make sure that the ship was safe before their turn on land, the rest looking around to find a direction before being whistled over by the sellsword, the crew sticking together as much for directions as it was for safety, but Davos, Asha, Tyrion and the Clegane walked side by side and looking more like a gang in motley than not, yet whatever amusement the men and women in the busy harbour might have had was silenced by the sight of the towering Hound, even mercenaries busy offering their talents to one captain or another staying clear of him. All around were a mix of men from across the known world, greater even than the variety that he had seen at the Arbor or even King's Landing, the moorings filled with swanships from the Summer Isles, violet galleys from Braavos, cogs from Westeros, overbuilt whalers from Ibben and a dozen different kinds of pleasure barge, their wealthy masters making preparations to spend the next few days on the waves whilst the weather was fine, stunningly beautiful pleasure girls and boys on their arms and tending to their every need. Few people turned their attentions towards any of them or even towards their ship, a ship that bore the Lannister crest upon its sails and which any man would have known to have come from Lannisport and could have expected to be carrying a cargo of the finest jewelry made by the goldsmiths of the west.  
  
And yet no one seemed to care.  
  
"You'd think there would be more merchants coming to our ship in this weather," Davos said quietly, looking towards Tyrion. "I've been here before when a Lannister ship came to port with gold and merchants trampled each other into the rocks to be first."  
  
"And yet here we are, with no one caring enough to collect a port fee," Tyrion muttered, his eyes on the stones in front of him, careful to avoid any wet patches that might send him slipping into the sea.  
  
"That's why," Asha said, gesturing with a tip of her head towards a massive galley that was as wide and high as the  _King Robert's Hammer_ , the flagship of the royal fleet of King's Landing, yet twenty to thirty feet longer in length, a massive monster of a ship, yet she bristled not with scorpions or spitfires or catapults, but grated windows sealed with soft curtains.  
  
And on her sails was a harpy, wings spread, her left claw holding a whip and an iron collar in her right, chains dangling from both.  
  
It was a slaver's barge.  
  
"...and this young woman, no older than twenty namedays, is trained in the almost lost art of weaving Naathi silk," boasted a Ghiscari slaver, stood upon a wooden crate, amber skinned and wire haired, laughing faced and dressed in a rainbow striped  _tokar_ , the long flowing gown of his people. "We will start at one hundred and fifty golden marks!"  
  
"I'll have her," shouted a voice from amongst the crowds. "One hundred and fifty!"  
  
"One sixty!" shouted another.  
  
"Two hundred!"  
  
"Three fifty!"  
  
"Five hundred!"  
  
"Seven hells," Davos uttered as they pressed into the crowd that was so packed with merchants and magisters and bodyguards and servants as to block the entire wharf...  
  
...revealing the horrid show in all its detail, for in the midst of the clearing, protected behind an armed ring of eunuch warriors, were men and women stripped bare and arms and bound with iron manacles on their arms and legs, heads bowed and backs scarred, the air filled with the stinking sweetness of perfumes so as to conceal the stench of the dozens, no,  _hundreds_ , of unwashed bodies that had been confined in their voyage, and confined they were, for not far from them were simple wooden boxes with air holes cut into them, easy to maintain, easy to stack, a more efficient use of space than having them in their own rooms or even packed into a barracks. Even farmers would not pack their livestock so tightly together as that for fear of disease or fury, and yet here it was, carried out on men and women and mayhaps even children, packed like bricks in a wall. The sight made his stomach churn, bitter bile rising in his throat at the thought of using people as cattle in such a manner.  
  
This was wrong. Truly wrong.  
  
"Mother have mercy," he muttered under his breath, reaching into his pocket with his good hand to draw out the glass prism he had taken from the Silence after the battle, gripping so hard in his fist that he thought it might shatter. "If there is any justice in the world -"  
  
"Come, we have to keep moving," Tyrion said grimly.  
  
"We cannot leave these people to suffer like this, my lord," Davos said firmly. "We have to do something. There is no greater crime in the eyes of the Seven than -"  
  
"- to keep slaves," Tyrion finished, nodding with understanding. "I loathe the idea more than you do, ser. But there is nothing that we can do."  
  
"Is there something wrong, good sers?" asked a voice in the crowd, and out came a scarred Lysene man, dressed in scarlet and silver and carried atop a low palanquin so as to make up for the lack of his left leg that had been cut from below the knee, escorted by fourteen men, seven on either side. "It is not often we have Westerosi in our market."  
  
Clegane gritted his teeth at the mention of the title of knighthood. Nothing infuriated more than being called a knight, that was something Davos had learnt over the voyage for certain. "Of course there's something wrong, you whoreson -"  
  
"I meant no offense," the Lysene said, looking down on him with cold eyes, hair cut short to reveal the lack of an eye. "I am merely curious as to why men - and a woman, I see - are in my city."  
  
"Your city?" Tyrion asked. "I thought this city was ruled by magisters, not lords?"  
  
"Make no mistake, it is mine," the magister nodded. "Come. I see no reason why men of your sensibilities should be out here, witnessing...this."  
  
He threw a hand towards the slavers, watching with stoic resilience as the Naathi girl was pushed towards her owner, only to refuse in defiance...only to rush forward when a whip was raised, its bearer laughing at her terror. With a slave sold, the slaver spat out a phrase in the guttural tones of the bastard tongue of the Ghiscari of Slaver's Bay, and a new coffin was brought forth, raised upright, opened. The dead body of a young man slumped out, a Summer Islander as big in build as Robert Baratheon was said to have been in his prime, not a single bead of cold sweat upon his brow.  
  
He had dehydrated in the heat.  
  
" _Qrugh_!" shouted the slaver in frustration. "He was a fine catch. Strong and swift. I could have easily had two hundred and fifty marks as a starting price for him."  
  
"It is not something for the lighthearted, I fear," the Lysene said flatly. "Twenty five gold dragons for his corpse and no more. The maesters need bodies for their studies of healing and I have a swift ship and salt to bring it to the Citadel before the rot sets in."  
  
"Done," the slaver answered, happy to at least recouped his losses.  
  
"Keep the excess. I have little desire for it, and keep the body as well. One of my men shall collect it in an hour," the magister said as he reached down to his waist and threw him a coin purse, never once taking his eyes from the Lannister men before him. "Now, shall we?"  
  
"Why should we follow a slaver?" Davos snapped. "You're all scum."  
  
"Because there is nothing you can do here," the Lysene answered simply, placing hands together, smiling slightly. "Because you will never make it off the wharf if you keep being so...disreputable."  
  
Davos almost swore then with all the curses he could think of, but Tyrion pulled his sleeve with as much subtlety as he could, making the smuggler notice the watching eyes all around, eyes that he had forgotten in his fury, the eyes of men angered by his words, as hateful of him as he was disgusted with them. It was for the sake of him and all the others that he sighed and followed, the slavers laughing at his flight, following the dwarf as he walked alongside the Lysene's palanquin, each corner carried by a strong man who bore a brand upon his outer arm, yet the brand was of a broken chain, not a connected one.  
  
 _These must be free men,_  he realized, looking to the palanquin's passenger with confusion.  _Why would he employ free men when he can have slaves to carry him?_  
  
"Though I must admit," the Lysene said with a quiet amusement as they began moving away from the crowd. "It is not often that men have the courage to call a band of wealthy slavers scum to their faces."  
  
"Why are you?" Tyrion asked. "Why are you helping us?"  
  
"I would rather not give you my name, lest your father be so inclined as to use it against me," the Lysene answered firmly. "As for why I am helping you, consider it a debt repaid. You Lannisters are always on about paying your debts. I suppose it is only fair for someone else to pay one of theirs to you."  
  
"What debt?"  
  
"Why, the one that came when I killed your great uncle with a single blow of my sword on Bloodstone," came the answer.  
  
"You're the man who killed Ser Jason Lannister?" Tyrion said with a quiet amazement. "You're right not to tell me your name. If my father ever learnt who you were -"  
  
"He would be inclined to return the favor, though I do have plans in case that happens. Favors to be called in and the like," the magister said, leaning onto the arm of his seat so as to see them better. "It is quite the tale, I assure you, but I must admit to being more interested in what  _you_  are doing  _here_  when a slaver's barge comes into my port."  
  
"We're just here to pick up supplies for the next part of our journey," Asha answered with a shrug. "Nothing more."  
  
"She speaks the truth," Davos nodded. "We're here to rest and resupply. But why are your men branded with broken chains?"  
  
"Because we are free men," came the answer from one of the men working to carry the magister along, spoken with the same loyalty that Davos might have for Stannis or Stannis might have for his brother, the unquestioning loyalty that simply  _was_  and nothing more. "The magister bought us our freedom."  
  
"You're...not a slaver?"  
  
"How could a man who keeps the Seven be a slaver?" the magister answered, meeting Davos in the eye.  
  
"You keep the Seven? Here?" Tyrion asked, amazed. "Truly?"  
  
"It was Jason Lannister who helped me find my faith," the magister answered softly, looking forward as they passed from the quay and the harbor and into the city proper, Bronn and the others heading into a pleasure house and leaving the four alone with but the magister and his retinue. "As most young men of war do...well, I looted his body the moment I got the chance."  
  
"Truly? Were you so strapped for coin as to loot a dead Lannister?" Tyrion asked with barely veiled skepticism. "What were you armed with? A cudgel?"  
  
"It's just battle," Clegane shrugged. "Looting is half of it."  
  
"And he did pay the iron price," Asha answered, utterly unphased. "My uncles would be proud."  
  
"I was a young merchant pretending to be a hero, then, covered in the latest Myrish plate, the best armor that money could buy, and armed with a sword of Tyroshi steel and riding on a Dornish sand steed," the magister corrected. "I was surely better equipped than him."  
  
"How did he die?"  
  
"Too focused on the front," the magister explained. "He was out on patrol trying to learn the terrain when he was ambushed, and he was fighting against some sellsword and finished him off as I rode up from behind at a charge and struck him around the back of the head with the edge of my sword. It ruined a fine blade, but it crumpled the back of his helm and smashed his skull. Quick. Painless. A good way to die, if I might say so myself."  
  
"I would rather die in one of these pleasure houses," Tyrion said, growing more cheerful. "Smothered by breasts or drowned in wine. Mayhaps both."  
  
"Who wouldn't," Davos muttered.  
  
"In any case, I brought my steed to a halt, since at first I thought I had simply knocked him out," the magister continued. "I was hoping for a chance at a ransom, since there was no shame in such a thing and your grandfather, Tytos, was well known for his generosity."  
  
"My father said he brought my family to ruin."  
  
"He did, from what I hear of it, but regardless, Jason was dead," the Lysene said with a nod. "I checked his body. Not for coin, though. Information. Even here we know the Lannisters are one of the greatest families in the Seven Kingdoms, but then, we were not entirely sure who was leading the invasion. It was my thought that Lannister strength and gold would have made Jason the commander, and so I checked for any letters or the like he might have been carrying, anything that might be able to give us an advantage."  
  
"Clever," Asha said.  
  
"We were outnumbered twenty to one in that war," the magister said. "Cunning was never part of it. A foolish quest for glory, perhaps so, but cunning...? Never."  
  
"But what I found..."  
  
The magister reached into his breast pocket, aged fingers sliding through the cloth of his puffed shirt to pull out the strings of an an old wooden amulet in the shape of a seven sided star, each point beautifully carved into the figure of each of the gods and all positioned around another star within, one of crystal glass that caught the sun's light and shone forth a rainbow of seven colors upon the stones.   
  
"...was better than any letter, for I found myself that day. Not instantly, perhaps. But over the weeks that followed I lost a leg and gained faith. I learnt who I was and how I wanted to live my life," he said. "And what was right and what was wrong."  
  
"Then what are you doing with his body?" Davos asked swiftly, unbelieving. "Why do you let the slavers do business in your port, if it truly is yours?"  
  
"The body of that poor fellow will be given over to the next swanship I see," the magister answered, his voice honest and true. "With any luck, they will be able to take him back to his homeland, mayhaps even find the mother and father who lost their son and bring him home. As for the slave barges, it is more simple than you might expect. This city is built on the backs of slaves. Slaves clean our streets. Load our cargoes. Row our galleys."   
  
"And yet it doesn't have to be this way. I do what I can to push people away from the slave trade by using my wealth; I buy slaves and sell them to the Braavosi, who take them back to their city to free them so that they might have a fresh start or find their way home, if it still exists, but more, I own that port you moored landed on. It is a freeport."  
  
"That doesn't seem very profitable," Tyrion said.   
  
"On the contrary, it is extremely profitable."  
  
"How do you make coin if not for tariffs and fees, then?"  
  
"Quite simple," the magister smiled. "The lack of tariffs mean that more ships dock there than not, so the pillowhouses and the taverns that I own see more patrons than not. The prices there are a fraction higher than they would be anywhere else, but the increased number of customers through the door means many times the profit. Ships come and go from Lys constantly, bringing new men eager to rest after their voyage, and so I can thus make a few thousand gold dragons a day."  
  
"Seven hells," Davos said, amazed. "If you make that much gold a day, then couldn't you simply buy all the slaves that came here and free them?"  
  
"I wish it were so, but it is not," the magister lamented grimly as they passed through the busy and crowded streets, freemen bowing their heads at the sight of him with the utmost respect and the Lysene going about their day with indifference. "I am the wealthiest magister in Lys, but combine the wealth of the others together and I am beggared in comparison. I can do much to reduce the number of slavers here, but not much to help the slaves themselves. Or to use a sailor's words, I can cork the hole to slow the ship from flooding, but cannot remove the water that gets inside. I work from within to try and change my home for the better, even if I must make use of less than honest means."  
  
"So, your own people would think you are a traitor, then?"  
  
"Mayhaps so, but I prefer to think of myself as a righteous demon, working to keep the others in the same hell I am in," the Lysene magister replied, tapping his right foot against the floor of his palanquin to tell the men carrying him to stop. "In any case, I think it best we depart from one another, lest either of us be harmed for our company."  
  
"I don't suppose you could get us cheap supplies for our ship?" Tyrion asked, only for the magister to shake his head. "A pity."  
  
"But I know someone who can," the magister replied, raising a hand to brush hair from his eyes. "Someone who I have been employing for sometime. So long as you care little where the goods were found...then you could get them for a third of the price you see on the market."  
  
"Who?" Asha asked. "We'll need more than some street merchant can give."  
  
"Best if you follow me, then," the magister smiled. "My manse is not far."  
  
"Davos?" Tyrion asked, looking to the Seaworth.  
  
"I see no harm in it, so long as the seller is honest," the smuggler in him answered. "More likely than not it came from some corrupt harbourmaster and isn't taxed. There's little wrong in that."  
  
"Then I suppose we will take you up on this offer," Tyrion said. "Lead the way."  
  
The magister nodded in an understanding silence, then tapped his foot on the floor again, his strongmen hoisting him with renewed vigor as they marched down the street, guards alongside and Davos and all the others behind, easily keeping pace as they proceeded through the city...and every footstep deeper into the heart of Lys revealed just how much of a city it was. The streets were filled with hundreds of people, mayhaps even thousands, and almost all of them were the silver haired and violet eyed scions of Valyria, strikingly beautiful to the last and going about their leisurely lives as their sellsword guards escorted them and as their slaves carried their belongings, the rattling of their chains deafened out by the noise of footsteps on cobblestone and the daily clamor of life in one of the world's largest cities, the noise of men haggling over prices, women laughing at the japes and poems of their would be suitors, the playing shouts of children running through the streets, the clatter of coins on counter and the hammering of the smith's trade and the grating noise of a carpenter's saw as he worked to support the city's vast fleets for his daily bread. It was no different than King's Landing in that way, and yet it felt utterly alien to be one of a few Westerosi so far inside the massive city, to stand out from the crowds in the way that the Targaryens must have surely felt in their own city, let alone their own kingdom...and then he realized.  
  
 _This is how Tyrion must feel every day,_  he thought as he sidestepped a cart rolling towards the port with many jars of perfume, its master whistling cheerfully as a slave pulled it along.  _He's a dwarf surrounded by hale and hearty men._  
  
He looked to the dwarf then, understanding. Both of them were outcasts in their own way. Tyrion was a dwarf born into one of the most powerful families in all of Westeros, forever chastised for his lack of a strong body and barred from knighthood, yet Davos was born strong but into a family of no note from Flea Bottom, the most wretched part of the capital, a thing that so many noblemen and women of older families took little effort to ignore, forever reminding him of how he had risen from the gutter.   
  
They were outcasts. They were friends.   
  
"And here we are," the magister said as they stopped before a great manse, a great building surrounded by a small but strong wall that the main building could not help but rise above, as proud as any castle and thrice as opulent. "I have many rooms to spare, if you so need them, but I think it better if you were to stay on your ship, lest someone try and steal anything."  
  
"Thank you for the offer," Davos smiled as the gate opened...  
  
...and then he saw him on the steps, a smile on his face and a woman on his lap, dressed in a massive robe of golden cloth with tear shaped gemstones sewn into it every dozen or so inches, shining in the sun like mirrors, only for him to push the woman off his lap and rise to his feet, grinning widely as he saw Davos step forth.  
  
"Davos, my old friend!" laughed Salladhor Saan, striding across the courtyard with his long sleeves dragging on the ground. "It is good to see you again!"  
  
"Salladhor, you scoundrel," Davos smiled as the pirate prince walked over and threw his arms around him as a brother. "Why am I not surprised to see you here?"  
  
"Ah, you know me too well to keep away, you old onion," the Prince of the Narrow Sea said with a jolly tone as he leaned back, clapping the smuggler on his arm. "If I knew you were coming I would have dressed in my good clothes!"  
  
"...those aren't your good clothes?" Asha asked, surprised.  
  
"Aye, these are just some trash I found on a Qartheen slaver last month," the pirate answered, his voice as honest as it could ever be, and then he narrowed his eyes as he looked the Greyjoy woman over before turning back towards the Onion Knight with a teasing smirk. "...you never told me you had such a pretty wife, Davos! How did an old dog like you find one so nice?"  
  
"I'm not his wife," Asha said flatly, her voice turning to hard iron.  
  
"All's the better!" the Saan said, opening his arms as he walked towards her, warm and jovial and joking as he ever was.  
  
"Best not, Salla, she has a temper -"   
  
There was a crack as the Greyjoy woman threw a clenched fist with all the strength and speed the Ironborn woman could muster, striking the pirate prince square on the jaw...and Salladhor Saan, commander of a fleet of twenty four ships and one of the most feared pirates in the Narrow Sea, crumpled to the ground, unconscious.  
  
Davos sighed. He tried to warn him.   
  
"Well, we seem to be making friends already," Tyrion said cheerfully as he walked into the courtyard, whistling. "So! I take it this manse has a bath?"  
  


****  
 **End of Part 3!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And done...and now we are really getting underway! :D As is tradition, it's time for the summary, and it's going to be a big one since there is a lot of ground to cover, so I'm going to split it into two sections, one for each of the ones above. It's a bit late, though, so don't expect either of them to be entirely comprehensive monstrosities that explain how everything works :p As this often is, my summary is too big to put into the notes, though, so you'll find the rest in the comments if you so want it!
> 
> 1\. In this one, we see the long awaited dinner that has everyone's favorite Greyjoy woman explaining her reasons for being present on the voyage, and they all lead back to the situation in her homeland, or rather, to the complexities that are the succession on the Iron Islands that come from the difficult situation of having Theon Greyjoy alive as a hostage in the North, who is the natural heir as Balon's last remaining son, yet Balon's preference for Asha and her presence on the islands means that she's more immersed in their cultural and would be preferred by her father, who has in many ways groomed her to take over his position. But Theon remains alive and healthy, making him the clear successor in the eyes of the Westerosi and in the eyes of many of the Ironborn, who - despite allowing women to fight alongside them - aren't entirely supporting of the idea of having a woman take over the isles, which we saw in the canonical Kingsmoot where the main argument against Asha before Euron arrived was that she was a woman. Now, Asha is actually more intelligent than most people take her to be as a woman of the Iron Islands in that she knows that any idea of fighting the Seven Kingdoms in another war to avenge the loss of the last would just end up with the Greyjoys being curbstomped and probably replaced, so she's less eager on such an idea, but she knows that the strength of the Iron Throne would be more than enough to help her claim the Seastone Chair when her father dies, even in place of her brother, and hence her presence on the ship - she is there to gain the support of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, who can pressure the Iron Throne into supporting her claim...and with such a powerful backer at her side, any of the lords of the Iron Islands who rebelled would find themselves hopelessly outmatched and swiftly crushed, allowing her to not only shore up her rule, but also wipe out those who might stand in the path of her reforms. 
> 
> Another reason she is on the voyage is to prove to her people that she has what it takes to lead them, as even the Ironborn are not so fond of the idea of travelling so far to the south - doing so proves she has the courage and ability to lead the Ironborn onwards and that she didn't simply get her place because her father had lost his sons in battle and to Winterfell. 
> 
> The rest is in the comments! :)


	4. Part 4

****  
 **In the Summer Sea...**

  
Qyburn smiled as he looked to the horizons, seeing the distant smoke of the Fourteen Flames as a thin plume of charcoal grey drifting up from the horizon, the orange light of the rising sun darkened to a crimson as it struggled to break through the smoke and ash that came from past the edge of the world. Glancing down to the book in his hand and leaning against the railings to steady his fingers, he carefully pressed the freshly sharpened tip of his quill down against the page, sketching out the outlines of all that he could see, the darkened clouds, the dull orange profile of the sun, the dim place where the ocean seemed to disappear entirely, reaching out to the small table he had brought up from his room below decks and switching quills and colors as the ship slowly came to life again. Anguy emerged from below with a knife in hand, humming a marcher's tune as he strode across the deck to the railing on the far side, shaving a week's growth from his cheeks one stroke at a time, making use of the sunlight before it turned hot and humid as it so often was in the Summer Sea, and not long after came Davos and Tyrion from their cabin, the Lannister dwarf yawning tiredly as he walked out onto the deck.  
  
"Working already, Qyburn?" the dwarf asked, walking over the steady and smoothly going deck. "How long have you been awake?"  
  
"An hour, by my reckoning," Qyburn answered quietly without taking his eyes from the page, delicately drawing the circle of the sun. "Is there something that I might help you with?"  
  
"Rousing my mind from tiredness so I don't walk off the side of the ship by accident," Tyrion answered, covering another yawn with the back of his hand before sighing wearily. "Seven...how did the Valyrians ever build their Freehold when it is so hot and damp at night?"  
  
"Blood magic."  
  
"I wouldn't be surprised," Tyrion murmured. "Truly?"  
  
"No," the maester laughed quietly, at ease. "They had thinner blankets than any you might find in Westeros. Winter never came to the Land of the Long Summer, so they had no need to keep themselves warm at night as we might, no, they could just sleep with lace covers and be comfortable."  
  
"I'm sure they envied us," Tyrion said. "Freezing in our castles whilst they kept warm."  
  
"Oh, they did," Qyburn said, meeting the dwarf's eyes for the first time that day. "Valyrians liked ice, but they could never get any in Essos, it was too hot and dry even then before the Doom, so they bought it from your fathers, the Arryns and the Starks."  
  
"The Starks?" Tyrion smiled. "I suppose they have enough ice to sell and more. They would've been happy to be rid of it. But if the Freeholders kept cool at night without it, what was it for? Cooling their drinks? Don't tell me it was for -"  
  
"Blood magic?" Qyburn teased. "They used it for their drinks, yes, and kept blocks of it around so that their slaves might fan the cool air onto them. Nothing more. That was how the Starks got their sword."  
  
"...you must be japing," Tyrion laughed, truly awake at last. "The Starks bought their sword with ice?"  
  
"They might say they got their sword for some heroic deed or another," Qyburn said, returning to his drawing whilst he still had the chance. "One version of the tale I heard said that they were gifted it by the Freeholders in exchange for killing a renegade dragonrider, but it is a lord's work to make their deeds seem more glorious than they truly are, else the singers will have nothing to sing about."  
  
"What a dull world that would be."  
  
"Exactly so," Qyburn nodded. "Better for people to think they got it through heroism and not because the Stark of Winterfell was more tempted by the idea of Valyria paying once for as much ice as they might ever want with a sword than being paid in gold for every block they took."  
  
"A wise choice, seeing how my father would pay a million dragons or more for the sword," Tyrion said, leaning on the railing, barely tall enough for his head to peer past the wooden timber. "What is it that you are drawing anyhow, maester? The sunrise?"  
  
"Valyria."  
  
The dwarf looked to Qyburn then, confused.  
  
"From  _here_?" Tyrion asked. "We must be near enough a hundred miles from Valyria. You must have better eyes than Anguy to see it from here."  
  
"The Doom rules Valyria still," Qyburn explained. "The smoke you see on the horizon  _is_ Valyria, or what remains of her anyhow. Those clouds above are her funeral shroud, carried here by winds from the Smoking Sea."  
  
"Seven hells," the dwarf said, peering into the distance. "Are we truly that close?"  
  
"Aye," Davos said, walking over with freshly shaved cheeks. "We're still on course for Gogossos and have been since we left Lys, but that always meant coming past... _that_. Better from here than from Volantis, though. Else we would have to go closer, like -"  
  
"Like Tommen the Lion King?" Tyrion asked. "I wonder what my father would do if he found out that we found the blade only for it to get lost in the Smoking Sea again."  
  
"It'd be a kindness if half the things I heard about the Smoking Sea are true," the Seaworth answered with a hint of fear, glancing to the smoke rising in the distance. "There's worse things there than fleshsmiths."  
  
"Oh yes, like demons and wyrms and other monsters," Tyrion sighed. "Why must everything outside of Westeros be deadly?"  
  
"I wouldn't worry about demons in Valyria," Qyburn said honestly, dipping his quill into the pot of flaxseed oil and yellow ochre. "Demons are something from the Seven Sided Star, and the Freeholders cared little for the Andal faith. They feared neither gods nor men..."  
  
"...though even they had the sense to keep their blood mages at arm's length, hence why they were at Gogossos when the Doom came," Qyburn reasoned. "Most of the "horrors" at Valyria are just men and women deformed by the poison raining down on them from the Doom, monstrous in appearance, yes, but men and women still.."  
  
"Oh, good," Tyrion sighed. "We're going to the one place in the world more haunted than Valyria."  
  
"Most of," Qyburn said again. "Choosing to go to Valyria over Gogossos would be akin to...jumping into the ocean in order to get out of the rain, or climbing into a mass grave to get away from a single, dying man. Both are bad, but one is much, much worse."  
  
"I thought you said there were no demons in Valyria?" Davos asked with low concern.  
  
"There aren't," Qyburn said. "What's there aren't demons, certainly not, but there must be  _something_ there, else Tommen would have returned to Westeros and we would not be on this voyage in the first place. Something other than ash and acidic rain."  
  
"Acidic rain?" Tyrion asked, intrigued. "Another horrible thing that we should thank the Seven for not being in Westeros?"  
  
"It happens in the Blackwater Bay whenever the Dragonmont wakes," Davos explained. "It comes from the sky like normal rain, but it can melt stone given enough time, aye, and burn skin too."  
  
"We should be safely far enough away from the Fourteen Flames to be unaffected," Qyburn added with a nod towards the Seaworth. "Still, it might help to keep some lye or soap on hand, in case we are unfortunate enough to find ourselves out in the open when it comes."  
  
"I'm less concerned about the crew and more about the sails," Tyrion said quietly and with grim awareness, glancing above to the main mast to see the great red cloth billowing in the wind, carrying them to their destination. "We could go below decks if that happens, but they can't, and if we lose our sails..."  
  
"The Targaryens and the Velaryons kept their fleets at Dragonstone and Driftmark," Davos reasoned. "I never heard of them having much of a problem from it."  
  
"At most it might strip the dye from the cloth and weaken the fabric," Qyburn added, returning to his work. "I cannot see it doing much more than that. Certainly not enough to destroy the sails outright, or the timbers for that matter. No, the bigger danger is in the rope soaking it up and burning the hands of anyone trying to climb the rigging."  
  
"Aye, that could be a problem, but there are some leather gloves beneath decks and the men-at-arms have gauntlets, too," Davos explained to the dwarf captain. "There's enough for a dozen or more men to be able to work the sails till the next rain washes them out. It could take hours to get the smallest work done, but it could be done."  
  
"...though we're lucky enough that we won't have to," the Greyjoy woman said as she walked across the deck, lightly dressed and with the Myrish eye on her belt. "We're sailing straighter than an arrow."  
  
"Not that straight," the Marcherman laughed from the other side of the deck. "An arrow is only moved by the wind, but we're being moved by the air  _and_ the water."  
  
"We're sailing straight, believe me," Asha answered instantly. "I saw the stars last night, and that's enough to know when you're going straight or -"  
  
"Asha," Tyrion asked. "If you're here, then  _who_ is steering the ship?"  
  
Asha pointed to the aft castle...and Qyburn looked to see a rope tethered from the tiller to the railing, keeping the ship sailing straight even though there was no one there to guide it.  
  
"The Ironborn do it all the time," the Greyjoy smiled. "Let's you walk around and do repairs or eat whilst the ship sails."  
  
Tyrion looked to Davos for advice, only for the Seaworth smuggler to shrug in answer.  
  
"But things'll get harder from now on," she said quietly. "We're losing the Ice Dragon."  
  
"Already?" Davos asked with whispered concern. "I thought we were going to have it till we reached Gogossos?"  
  
"It's been sinking a little lower every night," the Greyjoy answered, leaning on the railings. "It took me nearly half an hour to find the damned thing last night since it was barely over the horizon. Three or four more days and after that it'll be gone."  
  
"What then?" Tyrion asked swiftly. "If we lose the Ice Dragon, how will we know which way is north?"  
  
"We won't," Qyburn said flatly, raising an arm to point southwards. "As we go further south, the Ice Dragon will disappear and it will be replaced by stars that few Westerosi ever see and which none of us will likely ever see again."  
  
"And that would be wonderful if it didn't mean the risk of us all getting lost at sea and starving to death," Tyrion sighed. "Davos and Asha, you're both sailors. What should we do?"  
  
"Look up and see if there are any stars we recognize and try and use them," was the smuggler's quiet answer. "Then pray to the Crone and hope we find our way north enough to find the Ice Dragon."  
  
"The onion's right," Asha agreed. "We were bound to lose the Ice Dragon eventually, but there's other stars in the sky we could try to use. The Sword of the Morning -"  
  
"The Sword of the Morning is so large that we cannot hope to use it," Davos said before she could finish. "It has barely moved an inch."  
  
"What's the Sword of the Morning, other than a Dayne?" Tyrion asked. "I know the Ice Dragon, the Galley, the King's Crown and most of the others, but not that one."  
  
"The greatest group of stars," Asha said as Qyburn placed his quill into its well and turned over to an earlier page in the book...  
  
...to one where he had drawn the night sky during their passage through the Stepstones, a massive image that covered both pages with all the stars that he could see and name in the sky, utterly dominated by the great white belt that stretched from horizon to horizon and which bore a fitting name.  
  
"The Sword of the Morning," he said, pointing towards the belt of brilliant white stars on the image. "The ancient Valyrians called it  _Timpa Geralbar_ , High Valyrian for the White Road. No matter where you are in the world, you can find it in the night sky, and the old Rhoynar said that it was surely because we were  _inside_ of it, like standing half immersed in a pond."  
  
"And I thought the Daynes were supposed to be humble," Tyrion laughed. "Are you sure it cannot be used to guide us?"  
  
"Too large and too easy to confuse the front of it with the back," Davos reasoned. "There can't be many who know which side of it is which."  
  
"That is where you are wrong, ser," Qyburn smiled. "The silver link of healing may have been my passion, but like any good maester I had a bronze link in my chain as well."  
  
"Could you navigate the ship?" Tyrion asked. "Make sure our course is straight after the Ice Dragon passes?"  
  
"Mayhaps," the former maester answered, turning back to the page he was working on. "It depends on whether or not the wanderers are willing to help."  
  
"Astrology? That'll help us little," Davos mumbled.  
  
"Astro _nomy_ , not astro _logy_ ," Qyburn corrected. "There  _is_ a difference. The latter is something fortune tellers use to scam stupid men and women out of their coin. The former is a science, built on firm foundations, not on whatever they saw whilst eating mushrooms in the woods."  
  
"...you mean to use the wanderers to find which way of the Sword of the Morning is north," Asha smiled. "I've seen that done before. That was how my father sailed whenever he went reaving in Essos."  
  
"It is a simple technique to learn, but hard to master," Qyburn nodded. "Balon Greyjoy is no fool if he can navigate by that, but the Sword of the Morning is not necessary. No, the Maiden alone should be enough."  
  
"What is it that needs to be done, maester?" Tyrion asked, giving Qyburn the courtesy of his stripped title. "Do we have everything we need?"  
  
"Fortunately, I have all the things I need for it in my room," the maester smiled warmly. "I've been writing of our voyage, you see, as a Maester Yandel learnt of my place on the ship and thought it might be of great value to his work...the World of Ice and Fire he calls it. Terrible choice of name, but sure to be informative and I have little better to do whilst waiting for Bronn to break his nose again."  
  
"I'll make sure to send him your way rather than throw him overboard for the Drowned God to keep," Asha said with crossed arms. "Continue."  
  
"All that I need done is to have my own Myrish eye and its stand brought up to the aft castle on a clear night," Qyburn said, finding a darker blue for the ocean. "With that I will be able to find the Maiden in her own house, and from there determine our course. But that will depend on whether or not the wanderers are in the right position, as they travel at their own pace, not ours."  
  
"And if they aren't?" Tyrion asked.  
  
"Then I can do it with any other wanderer, though it will be more difficult," Qyburn said. "All that needs to be done is for me to use my map of the heavens, find the wanderers in the sky, calculate their angle from the horizon and then map that to the round world. From there, it is a simple matter of using those numbers to find where we are compared to the White Road and thus which way is north."  
  
"Still, there are other ways," Qyburn mused. "The ancient Valyrians had many ways for navigating, you see, ways that their children in the Free Cities learnt and which are why they rule the seas. They used them and their maps to find the right way towards the Fourteen Flames that were their fourteen gods when they prayed. But the Maiden is a wanderer who moves quickly, so it should be easy enough to find her."  
  
"...aye, I'll have to see this myself," Davos said to the dwarf. "I've never seen it done before, or tried."  
  
"That's the difference between sailors that are good and sailors that are the best," Asha laughed. "A good sailor does what they're told and does it well, but the best ones find a better way by themselves."  
  
"That helped your uncle Euron well enough," Tyrion smiled. "At least till he drowned in the Narrow Sea."  
  
"He's too rotten for the Drowned God to take him," Asha murmured with a low anger, her mood changing in an instant. "He probably washed up on one of the islands and bled out there."  
  
"Not in that armor he didn't," the Seaworth said. "He'd have been dragged to the bottom by the weight of the steel."  
  
"Mayhaps he cut through the leather straps and freed himself?" Qyburn suggested.  
  
Tyrion laughed in answer. "Even if he did, Bronn cut his ankles. He would have either drowned trying to escape or burnt with the ship when it went down. If not, the wound would've festered before anyone else came along."  
  
"Dead in three different ways," Asha smiled. "Even my uncle couldn't get away from that."  
  
"Anyhow, - oh!" Qyburn smiled, remembering something he had wanted to ask the ship's captains. "I was hoping that I might be allowed to go ashore on Gogossos for a time once we have arrived."  
  
"You're probably the only one who wants to go to that damned island," Davos mumbled.  
  
"What for?" Tyrion asked. "Research?"  
  
"Exactly so," Qyburn nodded. "Gogossos was never one of the Free Cities, no, but the knowledge that could be found there would be beyond price...though there is the small issue of the plague to deal with."  
  
"Oh yes, the Red Death," Tyrion sighed. "The books told me well enough about that. What Aerys did to Rickard Stark would seem a mercy compared to having your skin come off."  
  
"...is that what it said in the book?" Davos asked grimly.  
  
"It said that nine in every ten men died screaming," Tyrion answered honestly, the Seaworth whispering a quiet prayer in answer. "No, none of us are going anywhere  _near_ the ruins, lest we carry it back to the Seven Kingdoms."  
  
"What the gods denied you in body, they certainly made up for in common sense," Qyburn said with complete honesty. "Even I wouldn't want to go into the city knowing what fate befell it."  
  
"No, I am more interested in the various creatures of the isle, particularly the brindled men," he continued. "No maester has ever seen one in person, you know, and we only have stories to base our work off of...a chance to examine one would settle many debates at the Citadel, and earn the Lannisters the gratitude of the Archmaesters."  
  
"If you met the Grand Maester you would think he had a lion on his breast," Tyrion said. "But if the opportunity presents itself...you may have the chance. There's little reason to waste the opportunity."  
  
"Rightly so!" Qyburn said with a laugh. "When we return to Oldtown, the Conclave will be eager to meet you for your part in expanding their knowledge of the natural world and the people of Sothoryos."  
  
"If we make it back," Davos said fearfully, glancing towards the smoke rising in the distance. "The Doom took most of Valyria's demons with it, but Seven have mercy, the rest must have fled to Gogossos."  
  
"And we're sailing straight there," Tyrion said, forcing a cheerful tone into his voice for the sake of the crew. "Where few have gone before! Explorers, that's what we are!"  
  
"Aye, and we'll be exploring hell," was the smuggler's grim answer. "Brindled men,"  
  
"What are you lot talking about now?" came the harsh voice of the Clegane, the Hound armed and armored for battle as he always was, his burnt face glistening with the light of the rising sun. "Scaring yourselves again?"  
  
"It would seem that way. Maester, tell us something about our destination that will cheer us for a change," Tyrion asked, his voice almost pleading. "Something about Sothoryos that isn't monstrous or out for our blood."  
  
"The ancient Valyrians found a way to use this one type of tree to make a delicious brown sweet," Qyburn explained. "It came from small white beans inside pods as big as your fist, which they found could be used to make a sort of butter for one's beauty, or made into a sort of brown block like a brick."  
  
"What did it taste like?" Tyrion asked, curious.  
  
"There is little known about it, unfortunately, as the Valyrians themselves never considered it important enough to get more than a passing mention in other texts," the maester said. "We do know that the dragonlords were fond of it, however, and that they sweetened it with sugar from the Rhoyne after building towns on the coast to try and claim the land for themselves."  
  
"What happened to their towns?" the Clegane asked with a raised brow.  
  
"They were wiped out," Qyburn said simply. "Even mighty Valyria and all its dragonlords and sorcerers could not tame Sothoryos for more than a few years."  
  
There was silence after that.  
  
Silence but for the Lannister dwarf's long sigh.  
  


****  
 **A few days later, at dinner...**

  
Tyrion smiled widely as he pressed his knife against the side of the freshly baked bun, sawing through with back and forth motions of his right hand, the warm air released from within carrying with it the familiar scent of yeast to his nose, the same scent he remembered from Casterly Rock and the Street of Flour of King's Landing, the smell of a Westeros a thousand miles away. It was the smell of  _home_ , and there was nothing he had began to cherish more during the long voyage than the familiar feeling of a soft, warm piece of bread in his hand, fresh from the small oven a deck below where the ship's cook made all their meals. When they had first set out from Lannisport months before, it had been a small luxury, a little thing he was grateful for, but now, so far away from the shores of the Seven Kingdoms, further away than he had ever been from the Westerlands or his father or his brother or even his sister, it was more precious than anything else, a gift from the father he had never been able to love to his son's hands.  
  
 _I will have to thank him for finding a good cook when the voyage is done,_  he thought to himself as he wiped the knife off of his napkin before sinking it into the open jar of butter and spreading it with a flick of his wrist, watching the golden yellow melting into the white.  _It's helped make things bearable._  
  
The voyage from Lys had gone well enough, with the winds and the seas calm enough to let them sail in peace and with not so much as a pleasure barge having been found on the seas, yet alone anything that could have been called a warship. Yet with every day that passed the temperatures grew hotter, hotter and more humid and then hotter still, a sweltering heat from which neither sweat nor shade could offer much relief, making the summer heat of King's Landing seem like an autumn's day in comparison...but they had thankfully made good preparations for it all at the city, stocking up on wine and smoked meat and keeping it packed below decks where the heat could barely reach and where the crew took shelter on the hottest days, singing whatever song Anguy could remember for hours on end.  
  
 _He hadn't lied about those songs being days long,_  he laughed to himself as he placed the knife on the table again.  _Thank the Seven my father did not find a Marcherman to write his song for him, else they'd have never finished singing it to Lord Farman-  
_  
"You alright, Tyrion?" Davos asked from the other side of the table, pulling the dwarf from his thoughts and back to the cabin, where he and the two men he had set out with were eating. "You just started laughing."  
  
"I was just thinking," he said to the Seaworth with a smile. "Were you saying something?"  
  
"He was," Sandor Clegane said with a husky voice, taking a large piece of smoked ham from the platter in the middle of the table and throwing it into mouth, washing it down with wine.  
  
"Today was another day with nothing much out of the ordinary," Davos said as the dwarf turned his attentions to him, the smuggler reaching for a jar of grape jam and slathering his bread in it. "Asha says she didn't see anything during her watch, and neither did anyone else, aye, other than that wyvern of yours sharing a fish it caught with the cat."  
  
"All's the better if we don't see anyone," Tyrion smiled. "It means no one has heard of the blade, else there would be ships everywhere."  
  
"We're nearly there," Davos smiled. "The weather's been calm the last few days, but it can't be more than a week away now. Mayhaps just a day or two if the wind picks up. "  
  
"And then the long voyage back," Tyrion mused as he took ham and cheese from the platter and placed it on his buttered bread. "Had any thoughts as to our course?"  
  
"Aye, and I'm sure you'll like it," Davos smiled. "Straight west."  
  
"West?" Tyrion asked...before smiling. "To the Summer Islands. I thought you said you wanted to stay faithful to your wife, Davos?"  
  
The smuggler laughed. "I do, but the Summer Islands are beautiful and they'll have plenty of supplies for us to pick up. Good northerly winds, too. And the Summer Islanders always talk about their hospitality."  
  
"Summer Islanders talk a lot of shit," Sandor spoke.  
  
"You've met Summer Islanders before, Clegane?"  
  
"King Robert has a Summer Islander at the Red Keep, called Jalabhar Xho," Tyrion explained. "He's a prince in exile."  
  
"He's bloody useless is what he is," Sandor said. "His people are meant to be great warriors. But they don't  _fight_. It's all duels and one on one."  
  
"Lord Stannis told me about him," Davos said, leaning back in his chair. "He said he could hit any target with his golden heart bow, even discs thrown in the air by the servants."  
  
"That's  _because_ he has a goldenheart bow," Sandor said. "The arrows go faster, so you don't need to aim. Ask Anguy. Give the best fighter in the realm a wooden club and an idiot a sword and the idiot'll win."  
  
"But how is Jalabhar a bad archer?" Davos laughed. "I've never seen anyone other than Anguy who could do that with a bow."  
  
"He doesn't practice," the unarmored Clegane grunted. "Summer Islanders don't have battles, they only ever have one on one duels and it's all rituals and piss and no actual  _fighting_. I could take over the Summer Islands with my sword by taking them all on one by one."  
  
"That would be one to tell my father," Tyrion smiled to the Seaworth. "Yes, father, Sandor survived the voyage, but he became King of the Summer Islands and won't be coming back because he has a hundred wives and enough wine to drown in."  
  
"Don't tempt me, dwarf," Sandor laughed, one of the few times since the start of their voyage. "If I had a kingdom..."  
  
"Go on," Tyrion encouraged, taking a bite. "What would you do if you were king?"  
  
Sandor paused for a moment, either thinking or hesitant, Tyrion couldn't be sure...  
  
"I'd keep my own army," he said at last. "An army for the king. Not for any of the lord's. For me. Paid for by me and commanded by me. They'd train most of the time and learn how to march, too, so if anyone revolted I could crush them before they could gather their forces and become a real threat. It'd make me feared, and the Targaryens only kept the bloody throne because people were scared of their dragons."  
  
"Clever," Tyrion smiled. "The King's Own Army!"  
  
"The Royal Army," Davos suggested. "It'd go with the royal fleet."  
  
"And I'd use it to crush robber lords," he finished. "Just march up to their lands, siege their castles and wipe them out. The crown can't do that unless it has an army, so they just ignore it, but I wouldn't. I'd make sure justice was done."  
  
"King Sandor the Just!" Tyrion exclaimed as if he were a herald as the smuggler laughed and the Clegane smiled. "What about you, Davos?"  
  
"I wouldn't know where to start," the smuggler said honestly as he thought. "I've never had much land. I wouldn't know what to do with seven kingdoms."  
  
"You have more land than me," Tyrion said with a shrug.  
  
"Aye," Davos nodded with suppressed amusement, trying to be serious, speaking with a growing confidence. "I suppose I would invade the Stepstones, first. Salla's good and honest enough to let people pay to sail through unharmed, but most of the pirates there won't and'll steal the ship and the cargo, kill the captain and take the crew to the slave markets like how they got that Swann girl. Taking the Stepstones would stop all that and make the seas safe."  
  
"Then...I'll suppose I'll set up some charities for the worst off," the Smuggler said. ""  
  
"King Davos the Charitable Conqueror!"  
  
"What about you, dwarf?" Sandor asked, his voice free of any hostility. "What would you do?"  
  
"Conquer the Summer Isles so as to get all the wine you want?" Davos asked with a smile. "Get them to call you King Tyrion the Lionheart?"  
  
"If I wasn't before, I would now," the Lannister grinned. "If what Sandor says is true, they couldn't put up much of a fight if we made war on them."  
  
"Your nephew could probably take them on and win," Sandor said.  
  
"Then they would be damned if I landed twenty to thirty thousand men on their shores and named Jalabhar as Lord Paramount," Tyrion considered. "...and maybe make his position appointed rather than inherited. That way I can play the Summer Islanders against one another, make them vy for the throne's support and stop them from ever uniting against me."  
  
"Devious," Davos teased.  
  
"I wouldn't be a Lannister if I didn't have a few plots and schemes somewhere," he said. "After that's done, I think I would spend the rest of the time sorting out King's Landing. A bridge over the Blackwater, like the one at Volantis, then start building a city there and maybe some new walls on the north side to let the city grow."  
  
"Why?" Sandor asked, confused. "Wouldn't crossing the river just make the city harder to defend?"  
  
"It would, but it'd be worth the cost," Davos agreed. "I was born and raised in King's Landing. If there's anything wrong with that city, it's that it's too big for the walls. It's like getting a man grown to wear a boy's shirt; he can fit a little, maybe, but it won't be comfortable and it'll rip, too."  
  
"You've seen Fleabottom," Tyrion said to the Clegane. "There are families of eight living in rooms smaller than this cabin and twenty families in a space as large as this ship. It's a dirty sprawl that killed half the men in King's Landing in the Spring Sickness, not to mention it breeds criminals and other kinds of scum...uh, no offense, Davos."  
  
"None taken," Davos nodded. "I'd be the first to tell you that Fleabottom's a hole if you didn't already know."  
  
"But building a new city on the south bank of the Blackwater and expanding the walls would let the place spread out a little," Tyrion explained, taking his cup of wine and having a small sip, savoring the taste. "That way, it wouldn't be so much of an -"  
  
Then there was a flash of brilliant white light that flooded the cabin and eclipsed the dull flames of the oil lanterns. Tyrion looked to the open window with fright as the light faded...and before he could speak, there was the deafening bang of thunder that he could feel in his feet, vibrating up the chair's legs.  
  
Instantly Davos bolted upright, pulling the napkin from his neck and throwing it onto the table, his face pale as he turned to Tyrion to speak only for the door to be thrown open by Asha.  
  
"We've got a storm coming," she almost shouted, her voice cracking with fright. "And it's a big one."  
  
"Direction?" Davos asked quickly as Tyrion and Sandor rose from their seats.  
  
"Behind," Asha said as fast as she could. "It's gaining on us as well."  
  
"Seven hells," Davos murmured before marching out onto the dark deck of the great carrack, his voice rising to a shout. "Everyone on deck! We have to reef the sails before the storm comes!"  
  
"Davos!" Tyrion said quickly as Sandor dove below decks, shouting curses and hitting the walls with his fists to wake every last soul beneath, sailors rushing out onto the decks as quick as they could. "What do we do?"  
  
"If you keep the Gods you best start praying," Davos said solemnly. "The hells have no fury like a storm at sea."  
  
"Rope!" Asha said quickly, unfastening the rope from the tiller and taking it around her waist as the flashes of lightning and the boom of thunder came ever closer, the dwarf feeling the waters growing choppy underneath him. "Tether yourself to the ship! You go overboard in this and you are gone!"  
  
"You can't mean to be on deck?" Tyrion asked as Davos marched up the steps of the aft castle to Asha, a spray of moisture from the sea soaking the deck and forcing him to wince as salt water entered his eyes. "It's suicide!"  
  
"Someone needs to be here to man the tiller to stop the  _Gerold_ rolling in the waves," Davos said grimly, "And she cannot do it alone."  
  
"You've got guts for a greenlander," Asha said with fondness, loosening the rope so Davos could fit in before tying the two of them together, hands on the tiller. "You sure you know what you're doing, onion?"  
  
"This isn't my first storm," Davos said quickly, his face lit by lightning. "It won't be my last. Turn her into the waves -"  
  
"And go with the flow, I know," the Greyjoy said in understanding. "Easy."  
  
"And don't just stand there, Tyrion!" Davos shouted. "Rope! And that goes for all of you!"  
  
Tyrion didn't need to be told again, and ran back into the cabin as fast as his legs could carry him, rain starting to pour through the open window as men on the deck shouted and hurried up the rigging to reef the sails before the storm could arrive and rip them from the masts. The dwarf shut them as quickly as he could, pulling the shutters closed and barring it in place, feeling the floor rising beneath him as the plates and the food and the wine slid from the stationary table and crashed onto the floor, glass and clay shattering into hundreds of pieces and silverware passing through the open door and out onto the deck and into the waves, never to be seen again...and as the deck rose steeper and steeper still, it was everything he could do not to lose his footing and go with it, grabbing onto the table's leg and hugging it with all the strength he had, feeling the acid rise in his throat only to crash back down into his belly as the ship rolled over the wave and crashed into the raging waters, the forecastle soaking as men shouted, struggling to keep their grip on the rigging and struggling to put away the sails. One of them lost his grip, screaming as he fell from the rigging and plunged into the cold waters below, disappearing from sight in a heartbeat, and the dwarf's eyes were transfixed by the sight, locked on where he had been and where he had gone.  
  
 _We're going to die,_  a part of him seemed to mumble in quiet realization.  _We're going to die a day away from Gogossos._  
  
It was only the feeling of another lurch beginning beneath his feet that broke him from his fright...and filled him with determination. He rushed as fast as he could to the chest at the end of his bed, throwing the lid open and grabbing the rope that tumbled out, a simple thing of strong flax rope dyed red and gold, a gift from a sister who had surely sent it as a jape or because their brother had told her to send something. Quickly looping it around his middle, tying a knot around his middle and leaving enough slack that the rope wouldn't rip him in half it was jerked, he fastened the other end around the nearest, sturdiest thing he could find - the legs of the bed, built into the ship's own structure to stop it from moving and pinning a man against the walls during bad weather.  
  
"Hard to port!" shouted the Seaworth from above, and the dwarf rushed out to the soaked and darkened deck to see the nimble ship now sluggishly slogging with the waves, helpless and completely under their sway, Davos and Asha doing the best they could to keep with the changing currents, pushing and pulling the tiller this way and that.  
  
But the main sail was still full, still blooming out as the winds caught the cloth and pushed, the ship moving forward as fast on one as it would on all the others. The fore, bowsprit and top sails were reefed and wrapped twice to make sure they wouldn't come undone, but the mainsail was as big as those first two combined, a vast sheet of red and gold that was bellowing at full and nigh impossible for the men on the rigging to tame, the fast winds making it hard for them to grab it and the angry seas makes it even harder for them to hold it long enough for the work to be done, and again and again he saw the cloth slip from the hands of a man and force them back to the beginning, the mast groaning under the strain.  
  
"Is there anything you can do?" he shouted to Davos and Asha. "We can't take much of this!"  
  
"We're doing well with how strong the storm is!" the Greyjoy woman shouted in answer. "Once that sail's in, we'll be -"  
  
The dwarf heard the most horrible sound he had heard in all his life, a crunch like that of a stick snapping beneath a hard boot, but  **louder** , like the snapping of a tree trunk with the last blow of a woodsman's axe. It was the main mast. He spun on his heels to see the pillar of hard oaken timber cracking and buckling, wavering in the storm's breath as they snatched the sails from the crew's hands and flooded them to full, the men shouting in fright as the wind's picked up to full - and then there was a  _crack_.  
  
Then he could only watch as a dozen helpless men screamed in terror as the upper half of the mast snapped, starting to tumble towards the starboard side with the last few timbers snapping like thin twigs, the rigging ripping from its mounts as the mast collapsed onto the forecastle, instantly crushing the lucky and dragging the rest with it as it rolled into the waters, dragging them down with it as the crumpled scarlet and torn lion of the topsail disappeared beneath the ocean's surface.  
  
"Seven have mercy on us all," he spoke breathlessly, drawing the sign of the Seven on his chest as the sky filled with the flashes of lightning and the booms of thunder and the groan of buckling ship.  
  
The crippled carrack forwards, the golden lion on her prow sinking beneath the waves only to rise again and again and again, the seas threatening to swallow them whole as the ship leaning towards the port side,  
  
"She's  **rolling**!" Asha screamed, terror filling the Greyjoy's voice. "We're going to broach! We're going to flood!"  
  
"Hard  **to _starboard!_** "  
  
The Seasworth pushed the tiller as Asha pulled it to the port...and the ship answered instantly, moving against the waves and straightening and sending everything on the deck tumbling the opposite direction.  
  
Including the dwarf.  
  
He screamed as he slid across the deck to certain death, Tyrion slipping through the gangway, falling face first towards the water...  
  
...only to yelp in pain as he felt the rope go stiff. He grunted as it caught him, the hard and thick linen catching him and squeezing his middle tight as he felt the cold water soaking through his shoes and through his socks and on his feet, the furious seas thrashing all around and drenching him in its white foam.  
  
"Help!" he shouted frantically and as loud as he could. "I've gone overboard! Sandor!"  
  
Then the waves came again.  
  
For an instant, he thought he heard a bang.  
  
Then there was dark.  
  


****  
 **????**

  
Tyrion murmured quietly as his eyes began to flutter open, revealing a dull murk that became colors and colors that became shapes, his fingers pressing down to find soft cloth beneath their tips, the Lannister dwarf pushing himself upwards slowly, looking around with aching eyes and taking in the scarce few details that he could find all around him. He saw lights, oil lanterns burning dimly on the walls against the black shadows that threatened to flood the room from the corners, he saw wooden walls and wooden floors, scuffed but intact, he saw pots of herbs and bottles of physics and other concoctions and liquids...and it brought the memories of his last moments rushing back.  
  
The bread. The storm. The screams. The water. Had it been a dream? Had the storm never came, and he had instead been tossing and turning in his bed? Was he drowning even now, the sights around him the last gasps of a dying mind desperate for comfort as the end came? Or...  
  
...or had he survived? How?  
  
 _The rope,_  he remembered, reaching to the back of his head to feel a bandage, his cheeks twisting into a smile.  _Cersei saved my life!_  
  
There was a soft humming in the hall past the door, and through stepped none other than Qyburn with butcher's gloves on his hands and a large jar in his hands, filled with water.  
  
"By the Seven," the maester said with surprise, quickly setting the jar down on the table and setting his gloves ontop of it. "You lived!"  
  
"Unless you're in hell with me, Qyburn," Tyrion said, laughing weakly, the movement making the wound throb.  
  
"And you can still talk!" the maester smiled before placing his hands before the dwarf, three fingers on the left and two on the right. "How many fingers am I holding?"  
  
"Five," the dwarf answered, blinking. "We made it through the storm?"  
  
"You wouldn't have woken if we hadn't, I assure you," Qyburn said lowly, standing straight again. "We're still alive, though for a time we expected you wouldn't be."  
  
"How bad was it?" Tyrion asked...before looking to the table and seeing the jar. "...and what were you planning with that?"  
  
"I can answer both by saying that we were concerned about what might happen if we returned to your lord father without your body, either whole or otherwise," Qyburn said innocently, making it obvious what he had planned to do. "I did my best to tend to you, however, and it seems I did my best work as well. You are lucky to be alive, my lord."  
  
"I'm a Lannister," he said, climbing down off the bed and onto the floor, swaying for a moment and leaning on the table as he struggled to find his feet on the floor. "We're always lucky."  
  
"Careful," Qyburn said, reaching out to steady the dwarf. "I mended you once, I might not be able to do it again."  
  
Tyrion couldn't place what it was that made him barely able to stand, only knowing that something was off. Then he felt it in the boards beneath his feet and in his legs and in his arms and in his ears as well, knowing exactly what was making him unsteady.  
  
"Are we not moving?" he asked. "Are we becalmed?"  
  
Qyburn shook his head, and for the first time since they had started the voyage, the dwarf saw the maester go grim.  
  
"Davos wanted to speak to you the moment you woke, if you woke," the maester said, swallowing. "We...have a problem, you see."  
  
"The mast?"  
  
"That is a problem, yes, but we have an even greater problem than that," there maester said. "Much greater...I doubt you would believe it if the words came from me."  
  
"How could we have a bigger problem than having part of the ship missing?" the dwarf asked, confused. "Did we lose all our supplies as well?"  
  
"Gods!" came the voice of the smuggler from down the hall, quickly rushing into the room, Davos smiling wider than Tyrion had ever seen him smile. "The maester said you were going to die!"  
  
"I said he was probably going to die," Qyburn corrected. "There is a difference."  
  
"I almost did, from what I hear of things," Tyrion said, walking towards the Seaworth. ""  
  
"Aye, if it wasn't for that rope of yours, you'd have gone in the sea," Davos said with a grim smile. "It's good to see you up and about, though I wish we had other miracles as well. "  
  
"What's happened?"  
  
"How much do you remember?" Davos asked. "Qyburn said you might've forgotten a few things."  
  
"I remember the storm."  
  
"Aye, then you remember most of it," the smuggler sighed. "We barely made it through. Some of us didn't."  
  
"And the  _Gerold_?" the dwarf asked. "I'm fine, but before I went overboard I saw the mast -"  
  
"Aye, it's gone, and all fourteen men on it as well," Davos sighed. "We lost a third of the crew in that one storm."  
  
 _We had set out with fifty,_  Tyrion swallowed hard.  _And that brings us down to thirty five._  
  
"Are we...stranded?"  
  
"You have to see it for yourself," Davos . "It's down the hall. Can you walk that far?"  
  
"Whatever it is won't keep me in bed," Tyrion said. "Lead the way."  
  
Davos nodded, turning towards the door but keeping his eyes on the dwarf, whose staggered and confused steps grew all the more normal with each foot he placed in front of the other, finding his rhythm again. The halls were darker than they usually were, so much so he could barely see where he was going, Tyrion hearing the sound of cracking pottery beneath his boots and the soft squelches of walking in oil, the broken lamps yet to be cleaned away, and every wet step brought him closer to the way to the upper decks, where he could hear the pained groans of wounded men and the prayers of the fearful and the whispers of the anxious. A warm, humid  _breeze_ floated from the hatch that led to the lower levels, filling his middle with unease, Davos climbing down the ladder and helping the dwarf down into the ship's belly, into the cargo holds where they kept their provisions for the long voyage, the breeze growing stronger as he struggled to avoid tripping over fallen crates and battered casks, the light of lamps fluttering...  
  
...and then he saw the Clegane, armed for battle and armored from head to heel, visor low. Besides him was Tommen of his father's guard in his red plate, besides him Bronn in his boiled leathers and Anguy with his longbow and the clansmen with his axe.  
  
"See anything?" Davos asked quietly.  
  
"Something's out there," the Clegane growled, raising his visor. "But we can't see shit in the dark."  
  
"It can," Bronn said quietly, torch in hand. "I wouldn't go for a stroll if I were you."  
  
"What is it?" Tyrion asked, confused. "Have we gone upside down?"  
  
"Take a look for yourself, dwarf," Sandor said, coming to Tyrion's side with blade drawn, the smuggler following them into the furthest front part of the ship, the wooden rib's that gave the  _King Gerold_ strength shrinking...  
  
...and then he saw the hole. Seven feet across and six and a half feet high, Tyrion went wide eyed as he saw the starry sky above shining down around the full moon, revealing a sandy beach covered in broken timbers and small pebbles, all lit and glimmering by the light of their torches.  
  
"Seven hells," he murmured before turning to the Seaworth. "What did this?"  
  
"The storm," the smuggler said solemnly. "We ran aground and ripped this hole. If we hadn't slowed down when we lost the mainmast we would have tore the whole bottom out and be trapped here."  
  
"And where is  _here?_ " Bronn asked, keeping his sword close at hand as he looked to the shore. "I don't know what kind of trees those are and I've been all around Westeros."  
  
"Here," is all Davos could say.  
  
"Have we seen anything that might tell us where we are?" he asked. "Towers?"  
  
"I'll light the shore up a bit, see if we can't see anything," Anguy said, taking one of his arrows and wrapping the tip in a spare bit of string before dipping it into a nearby barrel of lantern oil. "Got a flint?"  
  
"Always," the clansman said, reaching into a pocket in his breeches and striking it off his axe, the shower of bright sparks catching quick on the arrow and causing it to burn as bright as any of their torches might.  
  
"Thank the Seven for a Northman, or not," Anguy said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood before nocking the arrow and shooting it onto the beach, the flames taking root in the pearlescent sands and lighting a space of a dozen or so feet for them to see. "See, nothing -"  
  
"What's that ball?" Artos asked, pointing out with a mailed hand. "There? Do you see it?"  
  
"I do now," Anguy said. "I thought it was just a rock, but it's too round."  
  
"I'm going to take a look," Tyrion said. "Do we have a ramp?"  
  
Sandor turned round to a broken shelf, grabbing the wooden board and ripping it from its smashed fitting, throwing it onto the place where the hole met the shore. "We do now."  
  
"Are you sure about this, Tyrion?" Davos warned. "We don't know what might be out there."  
  
"Precisely why we need to find out where we are," Tyrion smiled. "I hope I won't be going alone."  
  
"I'm not scared of some shadows," Sandor said. "I'll come with."  
  
"I can cover you both from here," Anguy smiled. "The beach is flat. Might as well be a range."  
  
"Hells," Davos sighed. "I'll come along."  
  
Tyrion smiled, and with that he stepped onto Sandor's ramp, climbing down onto the shore. The sand was soft and thin and nearly as white as fresh fallen snow, but littered with small rocks as well, rocks that helped stop him from sinking into his ankles in the soft shore. Warm and humid winds rose from the south, bringing with them the strange sweet smells of flowers he didn't know and wet earth, too, and on the beach he saw seashells of all kinds as he began to make his way towards the  
  
"This is the place, Tyrion," Davos said as they walked, the Clegane behind. "We're  _there_."  
  
"You don't mean -"  
  
"I do," Davos said grimly. "I checked the maps not long after the storm settled and we found ourselves here. They're not good maps. No Westerosi mapper has ever been this far south. But they're right. We're at -"  
  
"What's it matter?" Sandor spoke. "It doesn't matter where we're stuck if we're still stuck."  
  
"No, it makes a difference," the Seaworth said, looking into the darkness that lead towards the chirping jungles and deeper into the island. "You know what they said about this place. Monsters. Sorcerers. Flesh-"  
  
"That's enough of that," Tyrion said, his voice growing firm. "Panicking over where we are will help us little. We need to stay focused, and for now, that means making sure we are where we think we are. Neither my father nor your Lord Stannis would let fear get ahold of them if they washed up here."  
  
"Aye, you're right," Davos murmured before smiling. "Half of it all is probably just sailor's stories anyhow."  
  
"Exactly," Tyrion smiled, straightening himself out. "I am not scared of any fleshsmiths or anything of the sort, the way I'm not scared of snarks or grumpkins. They are children's stories, nothing more."  
  
There was the quiet rumble of the Clegane's laughter. "There's some lion in you after all, dwarf."  
  
"And who was it that saved me, anyhow?" Tyrion asked, trying to put the Seaworth at ease with a change of topic. "My father would to know who to reward, and so would I."  
  
"Sandor was the one who dragged you from the water."  
  
"I did," Sandor nodded. "I heard you shout and pulled on that rope of yours."  
  
"Thank -"  
  
"But you were dead."  
  
"...dead?"  
  
"You drowned like Robert in his cups," Sandor shrugged.  
  
"I don't feel very dead," Tyrion laughed.  
  
"Asha brought you back," Sandor said with all seriousness. "Pressed on your chest to get the water out, then took a breath and breathed it into you. Called it the "kiss of life" or something like that. Said that's what the Drowned Men do to bring Ironborn men back if they're underwater too long."  
  
"She kissed me?" Tyrion asked with surprise. "And people say it is my brother Jaime with the charming looks!"  
  
"I wouldn't say she did it out of love for you," Davos laughed. "More like she was worried what would happen if your father found out you drowned under her watch."  
  
"When we return to the ship, I want us all to meet in the cabin," Tyrion said. "We're going to need to plan."  
  
Davos stood still for a moment, then, looking around in confusion as he moved his torch about, the three still half a dozen feet from the stone ball.  
  
"We're not alone," he said. "Something's out here with us."  
  
"In this dark?" Tyrion asked with a smile, forcing himself to be certain that there could be nothing out in the dark. "Snarks, mayhaps?"  
  
"...no," Sandor said, raising his visor, eye's narrowed, listening. "Quiet, dwarf."  
  
The dwarf sighed...  
  
...and then he heard it too. A soft pattering of feet on the sands, looking to the source to see only darkness and to hear it circling around.  
  
"They were sailor's tales," he reassured himself quietly. "Surely they were just tales."  
  
"It's looking for an opening, whatever it is," Sandor grunted, raising his shield. "It won't get one."  
  
"We best hurry, before whatever it is brings -"  
  
The Clegane slammed the flat of his sword against the the gold and black face of his shield, once, twice, thrice, again and again till he struck it seven times, and on the Stranger's blow he stopped...and there was silence.  
  
"That scared it off," the Clegane laughed. "But whatever it is might come back with more."  
  
"And it won't be scared by noise then," Davos said, walking as quickly as he could towards the ball.  
  
"Are you sure it wasn't that cat?" Tyrion said, grasping for an explanation. "You know how sneaky it is."  
  
"No," Davos said, standing besides the round rock, holding the torch close so that . "It was too big."  
  
"And you, Clegane?"  
  
Sandor grunted.  
  
"That was no cat."  
  
Tyrion swallowed his unease. If the stories of the horrors of the far south were not stories, then that meant that they were  _real_...and if they were real...it bared no thinking about. Steeling himself, he crouched down besides the round stone, letting his curiosity replace his fear, seeing in the flickering flame of the torch that the surface had dimples and dents in it, like wood, smooth but not perfect.  
  
 _A closer look would do,_  he thought, considering the possibilities.  _Mayhaps this is a waystone? Qyburn said before that the Valyrians used stones to mark their landing points...it would prove we are where we think we are._  
  
He reached out towards the stone ball with trembling hands, feeling the smooth surface connect with his fingertips, raising it into the dim light of the wavering torch to see...that it was no ball, no, it was a skull.  
  
But it had no  _eyes_.  
  
"...Seven have mercy," Davos gasped as he saw for himself. "That was from no man."  
  
"No, it wasn't," Tyrion uttered breathlessly, staring into its mouth of needle fangs before looking back to Davos and the broken hull of the _King Gerold_. "Back to the ship. Now. Clegane, make sure we always have guards on that hole -"  
  
"You don't need to tell me, dwarf," Sandor said quickly, raising his sword for a swing and looking around through his narrow visor, covering the little Lannister at all times. "We're being watched. Whatever it was must have come back"  
  
"Aye," Tyrion said with a whisper, looking towards the groaning and chirping jungles in the distance. "We are."  
  
And as he rose up the steps that led into the belly of the  _King Gerold_ , Tyrion saw the broken and vine covered summits of a city's towers, rising from the thick canopy in the far distance, crumbling and broken by centuries of disrepair, the black stone lit only by the light of the full moon above and the flashes of distant lightning in the furthest south.  
  
They had reached Gogossos.  
  
  


****  
 **End of Part 4!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins! :D 
> 
> Now for the summary, because after months of sailing everyone's favorite band of plucky travellers have just arrived at Gogossos, carried to the island by the winds and waves of a tropical storm that has crippled the King Gerold...and which nearly claimed the life of Tyrion Lannister himself, who was saved only by the rope that Cersei sent him as a mocking gift and by Asha's knowledge of the Ironborn skill of the kiss of life. Smashed onto the shores of an island on the edge of the world, there can be no quick escape for the party who now find themselves learning first hand that the stories they heard about the accursed ruins of the Tenth Free City were not mere fairy tales, but fact. 
> 
> A longer summary than that is not needed, I think :p

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, was this fun to write...and if I'm honest with you, I do think this might very well be some of my best writing yet, and I would have just kept going and going and going :p 
> 
> As I said at the start, this story is, alas, going to end up being one with multiple parts, but I've just got so many ideas about it that I am absolutely, one hundred percent going to finish this beast when I've got the chance - it'll probably have four or five parts in total, each with three sections like the above, and roughly in the same ballpark range of characters and the like. Anyway, with that said, it's on to the summary, and I'd say there are only two sections that really need explaining since the rest should be clear, and they are the first and second sections of the part:
> 
> 1\. So, starting from the top, Lord Tywin Lannister summons back Tyrion Lannister and Sandor Clegane from King's Landing, with a very, very special mission in store for them - the recovery of the long lost Lannister blade, Brightroar, from the shipwreck of Gerion's ship discovered on the shores of Gogossos, the home island of the long lost Tenth Free City. His reasons for picking those two should be fairly obvious; Sandor is a good and loyal warrior, if not a knight, whilst also being so imposing a presence that he would give anyone onboard with questionable loyalties second thoughts. Tyrion, as Tywin's son, is the supreme commander of the mission, chosen for his quick intellect, wealth of knowledge and...well, expendability. Should he die on the voyage to disease or mutiny, then house Lannister doesn't lose all that much - indeed, it means that there aren't anymore questions about who will inherit Casterly Rock, since Tywin would be able to designate Kevan as his heir and send someone else, such as Daven Lannister, to recover the blade, the only real danger occurring if something happens on his way back with the blade. But Tyrion was definitely his first choice. 
> 
> Ser Davos Seaworth is himself a natural selection for captain of the ship itself, having proven himself an excellent sailor during the Rebellion, what with the whole sneaking past the entire might of the Redwyne battlefleet to relieve Storm's End - a captain with that kind of agility and sneakiness is exactly the kind of man you'd want in charge of a hush-hush recovery mission like this, since Tywin is concerned that, due to the rarity of Valyrian steel swords, someone could come along and claim the blade before the Lannisters have a chance to do so, either taking the weapon for themselves, selling it to another, losing it permanently or ransoming it back to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock for a massive price of gold, all of which could be avoided if a sufficiently subtle captain is in command...and having great skill at the helm of a ship is a bonus, as losing the ship to a navigational error or anything of the sorts on the voyage would put the Lannisters back at square one, only now having lost two ships and both Gerion and Tyrion...and considering the price that he wants for doing so, enough gold to secure his family's fortunes for generations to come and allow them to make a strong start into nobility, a price that the Lannisters (who forked out the immense tournament rewards for Robert's tourney at King's Landing after Ned arrived at the Red Keep, some 80k all together) can easily afford. 
> 
> There are other faces on the voyage, too, people who should be familiar to you all...
> 
> 2\. ...and this includes good ol' ex-maester Qyburn, and his wealth of experience, drawn to the mission by Tywin's promises of rewards for the men who crew his new ship on its first voyage to Gogossos and back, which totally has nothing to do with recovering a missing ancestral sword. Honest. Anyway, we don't actually have all that much information about him, so I had to play jigsaw puzzle and piece together the things we know and fill in the blanks myself, but it feels right. Anyway, he is the ship's physician, and a damned fine one at that, being described in the books as an equal to the Archmaester of medicine himself in knowledge. His job is pretty simple...and of course, his magical expertise shows in his conversation with Tyrion and Ser Davos at dinner, as does his knowledge of history. Simply put, the things that happened at Gogossos were...not pleasant, even by Valyrian standards, and got even worse after the Doom. We're talking full usage of blood magic and slavery, the latter providing fuel for the former till disease finally put an end to the Tenth City and wiped out its inhabitants. 
> 
> Also shown in this post is Bronn, because where would we be without everyone's favorite sellsword? :p


End file.
